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TALES FROM FOREIGN LANDS, 


16MO. GILT TOPS. 
UNIFORM IN STYLE AND PRICE. 


I. 

Memories: A Story of German Love. Translate<i 
from the German of Max Muller, by George P, Upton. 

II. 

Grazlella: A Story of Italian Love. Translated from 
the French of A. db Lamartine, by Jambs B. Runnion. 

III. 

Marie: A Story of Russian Love. From the Russian 

of Alexander Pushkin, by Marie H. de Zielinska. 

IV. 

Madeleine: A Story of French Love. Translated 
from the French of Jules Sandeau, by Francis Charlot. 

V. 

Marlanela: A Story of Spanish Love. Translates 
from the Spanish of B. Perez Galdos, by Helen W. 
Lester. 

VI. 

Cousin Phillis: A Story of English Love. By 

Elizabeth C. Gaskell. 


VII. 

Karine: A Story of Swedish Love. Translated from 
the German of Wilhelm Jensen, by Emma A. Endlich. 

VIII. 

Maria Felicia: A Story of Bohemian Love. Trans- 
lated from the Bohemian of Carounb Svbtla, byi 
Antonie Rrejsa. 

IX. 

Kanna : A Story of Danish Love. From the Danish of 
Holgbr Drachmann; re-written in English by Francis 
F. Browne 


5Eal£0 from Jorei'gn iLantis 




MEMORIES 


FROM THE GERMAN OF 

MAX MULLER 


BY 

GEORGE P. UPTON 


SIXTIETH THOUSAND 



CHICAGO 

A. C. McCLURG & CO. 
1914 





Copyright 

A. C. McClurg & Ca 
1874-1902 



THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S. A. 



Translator’s Preface, . 






• 9 

Author’s Preface, . . 




• 


• 15 

First Memory, , . . . 




♦ 


• 19 

Second Memory, . . . 






. 29 

Third Memory, . . . 






• 41 

Fourth Memory, . . . 






• S 3 

Fifth Memory, . . . 






. 69 

Sixth Memory, . . , 






• 97 

Seventh Memory, . . . 


. 




. 109 

Last Memory, . . . . 


. 


• 


. 147 



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TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE. 


HE translation of any work is at best a 



difficult task, and must inevitably be pre- 
judicial to whatever of beauty the original pos- 
sesses. When the principal charm of the original 
lies in its elegant simplicity, as in the case of the 
“Deutsche Liebe,” the difficulty is still further 
enhanced. The translator has sought to repro- 
duce the simple German in equally simple Eng- 
lish, even at the risk of transferring German 
idioms into the English text. 

The story speaks for itself. Without plot, 
incidents or situations, it is nevertheless dramat- 
ically constructed, unflagging in interest, abound- 
ing in beauty, grace and pathos, and filled with 
the tenderest feeling of sympathy, which will go 
straight to the heart of every lover of the ideal 


lO 


TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE. 


in the world of humanity, and every worshipper 
in the world of nature. Its brief essays upon 
theology, literature and social habits, contained 
in the dialogues between the hero and the hero- 
ine, will commend themselves to the thoughtful 
reader by their clearness and beauty of state- 
ment, as well as by their freedom from prejudice. 
“ Deutsche Liebe *’ is a poem in prose, whose 
setting is all the more beautiful and tender, in 
that it is freed from the bondage of metre, and 
has been the unacknowledged source of many 
a poet’s most striking utterances. 

As such, the translator gives it to the public, 
confident that it will find ready acceptance 
among those who cherish the ideal, and a tender 
welcome by every lover of humanity. 

The translator desires to make acknowledg- 
ments to J. J. Lalor, Esq., late of the Chicago 
Tribune^ for his hearty co-operation in the pro- 
gress of the work, and many valuable sugges- 
tions; to Prof. Feuling, the eminent philologist, 
of the University of Wisconsin, for his literal 


TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE, 


IX 


version of the extracts from the “ Deutsche The- 
ologie,” which preserve the quaintness of the | 

original, and to Mrs. F. M. Brown, for her 
metrical version of Goethe's almost untrans- 
latable lines, “ Ueber alien Gipfeln, ist Ruh,” 
which form the key-note of the beautiful har- I 

mony in the character of the heroine. 

G. P. U. 

Chicago^ Novtmber^ ^874, 




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AUTHOR’S preface. 





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AUTHOR’S PREFACE. 


W HO has not, at some period of his life, 
seated himself at, a writing-table, where, 
only a short time before, another sat, who now 
rests in the grave? Who has not opened the 
drawers, which for long years have hidden the 
secrets of a heart now buried in the holy peace 
of the church-yard ? Here lie the letters which 
were so precious to him, the beloved one ; here 
the pictures, ribbons, and books with marks on 
every leaf. Who can now read and interpret 
them ? Who can gather again the withered and 
scattered leaves of this rose, and vivify them 
with fresh perfume? The flames, in which the 
Greeks enveloped the bodies of the departed 
for the purpose of destruction; the flames, into 
which the ancients cast everything once dearest 


i6 


A U THORNS PREFACE. 


to the living, are now the securest repository 
for these relics. With trembling fear the sur- 
viving friend reads the leaves no eye has ever 
seen, save those now so firmly clpsed, and if, 
after a glance, too hasty even to read them, he 
is convinced these letters and leaves contain 
nothing which men deem important, he throws 
them quickly upon the glowing coals — a flash 
and they are gone. 

From such flames the following leaves have 
been saved. They were at first intended only 
for the friends of the deceased, yet they have 
found friends even among strangers, and, since 
it is so to be, may wander anew in distant lands. 
Gladly would the compiler have furnished more, 
but the leaves are too much scattered and muti- 
lated to be rearranged and given complete. 


FIRST MEMORY. 




FIRST MEMORY. 


C HILDHOOD has its secrets and its mys- 
teries ; but who can tell or who can explain 
them ! We have all roamed through this silent 
wonder-wood — we have all once opened our eyes 
in blissful astonishment, as the beautiful reality 
of life overflowed our souls. We knew not where, 
or who, we were — the whole world was ours and 
we were the whole world’s. That was an infinite 
life — without beginning and without end, with- 
out rest and without pain. In the heart, it 
was as clear as the spring heavens, fresh as the 
violet’s perfume — hushed and holy as a Sabbath 
morning. 

What disturbs this God’s-peace of the child ? 
How can this unconscious and innocent exist- 
ence ever cease ? What dissipates the rapture of 


20 


FIRST MEMORY, 


this individuality and universality, and suddenly 
leaves us solitary and alone in a clouded life ? 

Say not, with serious face, it is sin ! Can even 
a child sin ? Say rather, we know not, and must 
only resign ourselves to it. 

Is it sin, which makes the bud a blossom, and 
the blossom fruit, and the fruit dust ? 

Is it sin, which makes the worm a chrysalis, 
and the chrysalis a butterfly, and the butterfly 
dust ? 

And is it sin, which makes the child a man, 
and the man a gray-haired man, and the gray- 
haired man dust ? And what is dust ? 

Say rather, we know not, and must only resign 
ourselves to it. 

Yet it is so beautiful, recalling the spring- 
time of life, to look back and remember one’s 
self. Yes, even in the sultry summer, in the 
melancholy autumn and in the cold winter of 
life, there is here and there a spring day, and the 
heart says : “ I feel like spring.” Such a day is 
this — and so I lay me down upon the soft moss 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE, 


21 


of the fragrant woods, and stretch out my weary 
limbs, and look up, through the green foliage, 
into the boundless blue, and think how it used 
to be in that childhood. 

Then, all seems forgotten. The first pages of 
memory are like the old family Bible. The first 
leaves are wholly faded and somewhat soiled with 
handling. But, when we turn further, and come 
to the chapters where Adam and Eve were ban- 
ished from Paradise, then, all begins to grow 
clear and legible. Now if we could only find the 
title-page with the imprint and date — but that is 
irrevocably lost, and, in their place, we find only 
the clear transcript — our baptismal certificate — 
bearing witness when we were born, the names 
of our parents and godparents, and that we were 
not issued sine loco et anno. 

But, oh this beginning! Would there were 
none, since, with the beginning, all thought and 
memories alike cease. When we thus dream 
back into childhood, and from childhood into 
infinity, this bad beginning continually flies fur- 


22 


FIRST MEMORY. 


ther away. The thoughts pursue it and never 
overtake it ; just as a child seeks the spot where 
the blue sky touches the earth, and runs and 
runs, while the sky always runs before it, yet still 
touches the earth — but the child grows weary 
and never reaches the spot. 

But even since we were once there — wherever 
it may be, where we had a beginning, what do 
we know now.^ For memory shakes itself like 
the spaniel, just come out of the waves, while 
the water runs in his eyes and he looks very 
strangely. 

I believe I can even yet remember when I 
saw the stars for the first time. They may have 
seen me often before, but one evening it seemed 
as if it were cold. Although I lay in my mother's 
lap, I shivered and was chilly, or I was fright- 
ened. In short, something came over me which 
reminded me of my little Ego in no ordinary 
manner. Then my mother showed me the 
bright stars, and I wondered at them, and 
thought that she had made them very beauti- 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE, 


23 


fully. Then I felt warm again, and could sleep 
well. 

Furthermore, I remember how I once lay in 
the grass and everything about me tossed and 
nodded, hummed and buzzed. Then there 
came a great swarm of little, myriad-footed, 
winged creatures, which lit upon my forehead 
and eyes and said, “Good day/' Immediately 
my eyes smarted, and I cried to my mother, and 
she said: “Poor little one, how the gnats have 
stung him ! ” I could not open my eyes or see 
the blue sky any longer, but my mother had 
a bunch of fresh violets in her hand, and it 
seemed as if a dark-blue, fresh, spicy perfume 
were wafted through my senses. Even now, 
whenever I see the first violets, I remember this, 
and it seems to me that I must close my eyes so 
that the old dark-blue heaven of that day may 
again rise over my soul. 

Still further do I remember, how, at another 
time, a new world disclosed itself to me — more 
beautiful than the star-world or the violet per- 


24 


FIRST MEMORY, 


fume. It was on an Easter morning, and n' 
mother had dressed me early. Before the win- 
dow stood our old church. It was not beautiful, 
but still it had a lofty roof and tower, and on the 
tower a golden cross, and it appeared very much 
older and grayer than the other buildings. I 
wondered who lived in it, and once I looked in 
through the iron-grated door. It was entirely 
empty, cold and dismal. There was not even 
one soul in the whole building, and after that I 
always shuddered when I passed the door. But 
on this Easter morning, it had rained early, and 
when the sun came out in full splendor, the old 
church with the gray sloping roof, the high win- 
dows and the tower with the golden cross glis- 
tened with a wondrous shimmer. All at once 
the light which streamed through the lofty win- 
dows began to move and glisten. It was so 
intensely bright that one could have looked 
within, and as I closed my eyes the light entered 
my soul and therein everything seemed to shed 
brilliancy and perfume, to sing and to ring. It 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE, 25 

seemed to me a new life had commenced in 
myself and that I was another being, and when 
I asked my mother what it meant, she replied 
it was an Easter song they were singing in the 
church. What bright, holy song it was, which 
at that time surged through my soul, I have 
never been able to discover. It must have been 
an old church hymn, like those which many a 
time stirred the rugged soul of our Luther. I 
never heard it again, but many a time even now 
when I hear an adagio of Beethoven’s, or a 
psalm of Marcellus, or a chorus of Handel’s, 
or a simple song in the Scotch Highlands or the 
Tyrol, it seems to me as if the lofty church win- 
dows again glistened and the organ-tones once 
more surged through my soul, and a new world 
revealed itself — more beautiful than the starry 
heavens and the violet perfume. 

These things I remember in my earliest child- 
hood, and intermingled with them are my dear 
mother’s looks, the calm, earnest gaze of my 
father, gardens and vine leaves, and soft green 


26 


FIRST MEMORY. 


turf, and a very old and quaint picture-book — 
and this is all I can recall of the first scattered 
leaves of my childhood. 

Afterwards it grows brighter and clearer. 
Names and faces appear — not only father and 
mother, but brothers and sisters, friends and 
teachers, and a multitude of strange people. Ah ! 
yeS) of these strange people there is so much re- 
corded in memory. 



SECOND MEMORY. 




SECOND MEMORY. 


N ot far from our house, and opposite the 
old church with the golden cross, stood a 
large building, even larger than the church, and 
having many towers. They looked exceedingly 
gray and old and had no golden cross, but stone 
eagles tipped the summits and a great white and 
blue banner fluttered from the highest tower, di- 
rectly over the lofty doorway at the top of the 
steps, where, on either side, two mounted soldiers 
stood sentinels. The building had many win- 
dows, and behind the windows you could distin- 
guish red silk curtains with golden tassels. Old 
lindens encircled the grounds, which, in summer, 
overshadowed the gray masonry with their green 
leaves and bestrewed the turf with their fragrant 
white blossoms. I had often looked in there, and 
at evening when the lindens exhaled their per- 


SECOND MEMORY. 


SO 

fumes and the windows were illuminated, I saw 
many figures pass and repass like shadows. Mu- 
sic swept down from on high, and carriages drove 
up, from which ladies and gentlemen alighted 
and ascended the stairs. They all looked so 
beautiful and good ! The gentlemen had stars 
upon their breasts, and the ladies wore fresh 
flowers in their hair; and I often thought, — 
Why do I not go there too.? 

One day my father took me by the hand and 
said : ‘‘ We are going to the castle ; but you must 
be very polite if the Princess speaks to you, and 
kiss her hand.'* 

I was about six years of age and as delighted 
as only one can be at six years of age. I had 
already indulged in many quiet fancies about the 
shadows which I had seen evenings through the 
lighted windows, and had heard many good 
things at home of the beneficence of the Prince 
and Princess ; how gracious they were ; how much 
help and consolation they brought to the poor 
and sick ; and that they had been chosen by the 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE, 


31 


grace of God to protect the good and punish 
the bad. I had long pictured to myself what 
transpired in the castle, so that the Prince and 
Princess were already old acquaintances whom 
I knew as well as my nut-crackers and leaden 
soldiers. 

My heart beat quickly as I ascended the high 
stairs with my father, and just as he was telling 
me I must call the Princess “ Highness,” and the 
Prince “ Serene Highness,” the folding-door 
opened and I saw before, me a tall figure with 
brilliantly piercing eyes. She seemed to advance 
and stretch out her hand to me. There was an 
expression on her countenance which 1 had long 
known, and a heavenly smile played about her 
cheeks. I could restrain myself no longer, and 
while my father stood at the door bowing very 
low — I knew not why — my heart sprang into 
my throat. I ran to the beautiful lady, threw my 
arms round her neck and kissed her as I would 
my mother. The beautiful, majestic lady will- 
ingly submitted, stroked my hair and smiled* 


32 


SECOND MEMORY, 


but my father took my hand, led me away, and 
said I was very rude, and that he should never 
take me there again. I grew utterly bewildered. 
The blood mounted to my cheeks, for I felt that 
my father had been unjust to me. I looked at 
the Princess as if she ought to shield me, but 
upon her face was only an expression of mild 
earnestness. Then I looked round upon the 
ladies and gentlemen assembled in the room, 
believing that they would come to my defense. 
But as I looked, I saw that they were laughing. 
Then the tears sprang into my eyes, and out of 
the door, down the stairs, and past the lindens in 
the castle yard, I rushed home, where I threw 
myself into my mother’s arms and sobbed and 
wept. 

“What has happened to you.^” said she. 

“Oh! mother!” I cried; “I was at the 
Princess’, and she was such a good and beautiful 
woman, just like you, dear mother, that I had to 
throw my arms round her neck and kiss her.” 

“Ah!” said my mother; “you should not 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE, 


33 


have done that, for they are strangers and high 
dignitaries.” 

“ And what then are strangers V* said I. 
“ May I not love all people who look upon me 
with affectionate and friendly eyes.^” 

“You can love them, my son,” replied my 
mother, “but you should not show it,” 

“ Is it then something wrong for me to love 
people.?” said I. “Why cannot I show it.?” 

“ Well, perhaps you are right,” said she, “ but 
you must do as your father says, and when you 
are older you will understand why you cannot 
embrace every woman who regards you with 
affectionate and friendly eyes.” 

That was a sad day. Father came home, 
agreed I had been very uncivil. At night my 
mother put me to bed, and I prayed, but I could 
not sleep, and kept wondering what these strange 
people were, whom one must not love. 


Thou poor human heart! So soon in the 
spring are thy leaves broken and the feather» 
3 


34 


SECOND MEMORY, 


tom from the wings! When the spring-red of 
life opens the hidden calyx of the soul, it per- 
fumes our whole being with love. We learn to 
stand and to walk, to speak and to read, but no 
one teaches us love. It is inherent in us like 
life, they say, and is the very deepest foundation 
of our existence. As the heavenly bodies in- 
cline to and attract each other, and will always 
cling together by the everlasting law of gravita- 
tion, so heavenly souls incline to and attract 
each other, and will always cling together by the 
everlasting law of love. A flower cannot blos- 
som without sunshine, and man cannot live with- 
out love. Would not the child’s heart break in 
despair when the first cold storm of the world 
sweeps over it, if the warm sunlight of love from 
the eyes of mother and father did not shine 
upon him like the soft reflection of divine light 
and love } The ardent yearning, which then 
awakes in the child, is the purest and deepest 
love. It is the love which embraces the whole 
world, which shines resplendent wherever the 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE, 


35 


eyes of men beam upon it, which exults wher- 
ever it hears the human voice. It is the old, 
immeasurable love , a deep well which no plum- 
met has ever sounded; a fountain of perennial 
richness. Whoever knows it also knows that in 
love there is no More and no Less ; but that he 
who loves can only love with the whole heart, 
and with the whole soul; with all his strength 
and with all his will. 

But, alas, how little remains of this love by 
the time we have finished one-half of our life- 
journey! Soon the child learns that there are 
strangers, and ceases to be a child. The spring 
of love becomes hidden and soon filled up. Our 
eyes gleam no more, and heavy-hearted we pass 
one another in the bustling streets. We scarcely 
greet each other, for we know how sharply it cuts 
the soul when a greeting remains unanswered, 
and how sad it is to be sundered from those 
whom we have once greeted, and whose hands 
we have clasped. The wings of the soul lose 
their plumes; the leaves of the flower fast fall 


36 


SECOND MEMORY, 


off and wither; and of this fountain of love 
there remain but a few drops. We still call 
these few drops love, but it is no longer the 
clear, fresh, all-abounding child-love. It is love 
with anxiety and trouble, a consuming flame, a 
burning passion; love which wastes itself like 
rain-drops upon the hot sand; love which is a 
longing, not a sacrifice; love which says “Wilt 
thou be mine,** not love which says, “ I must be 
thine.** It is a most selfish, vacillating love. 
And this is the love which poets sing and in 
which young men and maidens believe; a fire 
which burns up and down, yet does not warm, 
and leaves nothing behind but smoke and ashes. 
All of us at some period of life have believed 
that these rockets of sunbeams were everlasting 
love, but the brighter the glitter, the darker the 
night which follows. 

And then when all around grows dark, when 
we feel utterly alone, when all men right and left 
pass us by and know us not, a forgotten feeling 
rises in the breast. We know not what it is, for 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE, 


37 


it is neither love nor friendship. You feel like 
crying to him who passes you so cold and 
strange : “ Dost thou not know me V* Then 
one realizes that man is nearer to man than 
brother to brother, father to son, or friend to 
friend. How an old, holy saying rings through 
our souls, that strangers are nearest to us. Why 
must we pass them in silence.? We know not, 
but must resign ourselves to it. When two trains 
are rushing by upon the iron rails and thou seest 
a well-known eye that would recognize thee, 
stretch out thy hand and try to grasp the hand 
of a friend, and perhaps thou wilt understand 
why man passes man in silence here below. 

An old sage says : “ I saw the fragments of a 
wrecked boat floating on the sea. Only a few 
meet and hold together a long time. Then 
comes a storm and drives them east and west, 
and here below they will never meet again. So 
it is with mankind. Yet no one has seen the 
great shipwreck.” 







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THIRD MEMORY. 


HE clouds in the sky of childhood do not 



last long, and disappear after a short, warm 
tear-rain. I was shortly again at the castle, and 
the Princess gave me her hand to kiss and then 
brought her children, the young princes and 
princesses, and we played together, as if we had 
known each other for years. Those were happy 
days when, after school^ for I was now attend- 
ing school — I could go to the castle and play. 
We had everything the heart could wish. I 
found playthings there which my mother had 
shown me in the shop-windows, and which were 
so dear, she told me, that poor people could live 
a whole week on what they cost. When I 
begged the Princess' permission to take them 
home and show them to my mother, she was per- 
fectly willing. I could turn over and over and 



42 


THIRD MEMORY. 


look for hours at a time at beautiful picture 
books, which I had seen in the book stores with 
my father, but which were made only for very 
good children. Everything which belonged to 
the young princes belonged also to me — so I 
thought, at least. Furthermore, I was not only 
allowed to carry away what I wished, but I often 
gave away the playthings to other children. In 
short, I was a young Communist, in the full sense 
of the term. I remember at one time the Prin- 
cess had a golden snake which coiled itself 
around her arm as if it were alive, and she gave 
it to us for a plaything. As I was going home I 
put the snake on my arm and thought I would 
give my mother a real fright with it. On the 
way, however, I met a woman who noticed the 
snake and begged me to show it to her ; and then 
she said if she could only keep the golden snake, 
she could release her husband from prison with 
it. Naturally I did not stop to think for a min- 
ute, but ran away and left the woman alone with 
the golden serpent-bracelet. The next day 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 


43 


there was much excitement. The poor woman 
was brought to the castle and the people said she 
had stolen it. Thereupon I grew very angry and 
explained with holy zeal that I had given her the 
bracelet and that I would not take it back again. 
What further occurred I know not, but I remem- 
ber that after that time, I showed the Princess 
everything I took home with me. 

It was a long time before my conceptions of 
Meum and Tuum were fully settled, and at a 
very late period they were at times confused, just 
as it was a long time before I could distinguish 
between the blue and red colors. The last time 
I remember my friends laughing at me on this 
account was when my mother gave me some 
money to buy apples. She gave me a groschen. 
The apples cost only a sechser, and when I gave 
the woman the groschen, she said, very sadly as 
it seemed to me, that she had sold nothing the 
whole livelong day and could not give me back a 
sechser. She wished I would buy a groschen’s 
worth. Then it occurred to me that I also had 


44 


THIRD MEMORY. 


a sechser in my pocket, and thoroughly delighted 
that I had solved the difficult problem, I gave it 
to the woman and said : “ Now you can give me 
back a sechser.*' She understood me so little 
however that she gave me back the groschen and 
kept the sechser. 

At this time, while I was making almost daily 
visits to the young princes at the castle, both to 
play as well as to study French with them, 
another image comes up in my memory. It was 
the daughter of the Princess, the Countess Marie. 
The mother died shortly after the birth of the 
child and the Prince subsequently married a sec- 
ond time. I know not when I saw her for the 
first time. She emerges from the darkness of 
memory slowly and gradually — at first like an 
airy shadow which grows more and more distinct 
as it approaches nearer and nearer, at last stand- 
ing before my soul like the moon, which on some 
stormy night throws back the cloud-veils from 
across its face. She was always sick and suffer- 
ing and silent, and I never saw her except reclin- 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 


45 


ing upon her couch, upon which two servants 
brought her into the room and carried her out 
again, when she was tired. There she lay in her 
flowing white drapery, with her hands generally 
folded. Her face was so pale and yet so mild, 
and her eyes so deep and unfathomable, that 
I often stood before her lost in thought and 
looked upon her and asked myself if she was not 
one of the “ strange people ” also. Many a time 
she placed her hand upon my head and then it 
seemed to me that a thrill ran through all my 
limbs and that I could not move or speak, but 
must forever gaze into her deep, unfathomable 
eyes. She conversed very little with us, but 
watched our sports, and when at times we grew 
very noisy and quarrelsome, she did not com- 
plain but held her white hands over her brow 
and closed her eyes as if sleeping. But there 
were days when she said she felt better, and on 
such days she sat up on her couch, conversed 
with us and told us curious stories. I do not 
know how old she was at that time. She was so 


46 


THIRD MEMORY. 


helpless that she seemed like a child, and yet was 
60 serious and silent that she could not have 
been one. When people alluded to her they 
involuntarily spoke gently and softly. They 
called her “ the angel,” and I never heard any- 
thing said of her that was not good and lovely. 
Often when I saw her lying so silent and help- 
less, and thought that she would never walk 
again in life, that there was for her neither work 
nor joy, that they would carry her here and there ' 
upon her couch until they laid her upon her 
eternal bed of rest, I asked myself why she 
had been sent into this world, when she could 
have rested so gently on the bosom of the angels 
and they could have borne her through the air 
on their white wings, as I had seen in some 
sacred pictures. Again I felt as if I must take 
a part of her burden, so that she need not carry 
it alone, but we with her. I could not tell her 
all this for I knew it was not proper. I had an 
indefinable feeling. It was not a desire to em- 
brace her. No one could have done that, for it 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE, 


47 


would have wronged her. It seemed to me as if 
I could pray from the very bottom of my heart 
that she might be released from her burden. 

One warm spring day she was brought into 
our room. She looked exceedingly pale; but 
her eyes were deeper and brighter than ever, 
and she sat upon her couch and called us to her. 
“ It is my birth-day,” said she, “ and I was con- 
firmed early this morning. Now, it is possible,” 
she continued as she looked upon her father 
with a smile, “ that God may soon call me to him, 
although I would gladly remain with you much 
longer. But if I am to leave you, I desire that 
you should not wholly forget me ; and, therefore, 
I have brought a ring for each of you, which you 
must now place upon the fore-finger. As you 
grow older you can continue to change it until it 
fits the little finger; but you must wear it for 
your lifetime.” 

With these words she took the five rings she 
wore upon her fingers, which she drew off, one 
after the other, with a look so sad and yet so 


48 


THIRD MEMORY, 


affectionate, that I pressed my eyes closely to 
keep from weeping. She gave the first ring to 
her eldest brother and kissed him, the second 
and third to the two princesses, and the fourth 
to the youngest prince, and kissed them all as 
she gave them the rings. I stood near by, and, 
looking fixedly at her white hand, saw that she 
still had a ring upon her finger ; but she leaned 
back and appeared wearied. My eyes met hers, 
and as the eyes of a child speak so loudly, she 
must have easily known my thoughts. I would 
rather not have had the last ring, for I felt that I 
was a stranger ; that I did not belong to her, and 
that she was not as affectionate to me as to her 
brothers and sisters. Then came a sharp pain 
in my breast as if a vein had burst or a nerve 
had been severed, and I knew not which way to 
turn to conceal my anguish. 

She soon raised herself again, placed her 
hand upon my forehead and looked down into 
my heart so deeply that I felt I had not a 
thought invisible to her. She slowly drew the 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 


49 


last ring from her finger, gave it to me and said : 
“ I intended to have taken this with me, when I 
went from you, but it is better you should wear 
it and think of me when I am no longer with 
you. Read the words engraved upon the ring: 
‘As God wills.' You have a passionate heart, 
easily moved. May life subdue but not harden 
it." Then she kissed me as she had her brothers 
and gave me the ring. 

All my feelings I do not truly know. I had 
then grown up to boyhood, and the mild beauty 
of the suffering angel could not linger in my 
young heart without alluring it. I loved her as 
only a boy can love, and boys love with an in- 
tensity and truth and purity which few preserve 
in their youth and manhood ; but I believed she 
belonged to the “ strange people " to whom you 
are not allowed to speak of love. I scarcely un- 
derstood the earnest words she spoke to me. I 
only felt that her soul was as near to mine as one 
human soul can be to another. All bitterness 
was gone from my heart. I felt myself no longer 
4 


50 


THIRD MEMORY. 


alone, no longer a stranger, no longer shut out. 
I was by her, with her and in her. I thought it 
might be a sacrifice for her to give me the ring, 
and that she might have preferred to take it to 
the grave with her, and a feeling arose in my 
soul which overshadowed all other feelings, and 
I said with quivering voice : “ Thou must keep 

the ring if thou dost not wish to give it to me ; 
for what is thine is mine.” She looked at me a 
moment surprised and thoughtfully. Then she 
took the ring, placed it on her finger, kissed me 
once more on the forehead, and said gently to 
me : “ Thou knowest not what thou sayest. 

Learn to understand thyself. Then shalt thou 
be happy and make many others happy/* 



s 



FOURTH MEMORY. 


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FOURTH MEMORY. 


VERY life has its years in which one pro* 



-L- / gresses as on a tedious and dusty street of 
poplars, without caring to know where he is. Of 
these years nought remains in memory but the 
sad feeling that we have advanced and only 
grown older. While the river of life glides along 
smoothly, it remains the same river; only the 
landscape on either bank seems to change. But 
then come the cataracts of life. They are firmly 
fixed in memory, and even when we are past 
them and far away, and draw nearer and nearer 
to the silent sea of eternity, even then it seems 
as if we heard from afar their rush and roar. 
We feel that the life-force which yet remains and 
impels us onward still has its source and supply 
from those cataracts. 


54 


FOURTH MEMORY, 


School time was ended, the first fleeting years 
of university life were over, and many beautiful 
life-dreams were over also. But one of them 
still remained : Faith in God and man. Other- 
wise life would have been circumscribed within 
one’s narrow brain. Instead of that, a nobler 
consecration had preserved all, and even the 
painful and incomprehensible events of life be- 
came a proof to me of the omnipresence of the 
divine in the earthly. “The least important 
thing does not happen except as God wills it.” 
This was the brief life-wisdom I had accu- 
mulated. 

During the summer holidays I returned to my 
little native city. What joy in these meetings 
again! No one has explained it, but in this see- 
ing and finding again, and in these self-memories, 
lie the real secrets of all joy and pleasure. What 
we see, hear or taste for the first time may be 
beautiful, grand and agreeable, but it is too new. 
It overpowers, but gives no repose, and the 
fatigue of enjoying is greater than the enjoyment 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 


55 


itself. To hear again, years afterward, an old 
melody, every note of which we supposed we had 
forgotten, and yet to recognize it as an old ac- 
quaintance; or, after the lapse of many years, to 
stand once more before the Sistine Madonna at 
Dresden, and experience afresh all the emotions 
which the infinite look of the child aroused in us 
for years ; or to smell a flower or taste a dish again 
which we have not thought of since childhood — 
all these produce such an intense charm that we 
do not know which we enjoy most, the actual 
pleasure or the old memory. So when we return 
again, after long absence, to our birth-place, the 
soul floats unconsciously in a sea of memories, 
and the dancing waves dreamily toss themselves 
upon the shores of times long passed. The bel- 
fry clock strikes and we fear we shall be late to 
school, and recovering from this fear feel relieved 
that our anxiety is over. The same dog runs 
along the street on whose account we used to go 
far out of our way. Here sits the old huckster 
whose apples often led us into temptation, and 


56 


FOURTH MEMORY. 


even now, we fancy they must taste better than 
all other apples in the world, notwithstanding the 
dust on them. There one has tom down a house 
and built a new one. Here the old music- 
teacher lived. He is dead — and yet how beau- 
tiful it seemed as we stood and listened on sum- 
mer evenings under the window while the True 
Soul, when the hours of the day were over, in- 
dulged in his own enjoyment and played fan- 
tasies, like the roaring and hissing engine letting 
off the steam which has accumulated during the 
day. Here in this little leafy lane, which seemed 
at that time so much larger, as I was coming 
home late one evening, I met our neighbor's 
beautiful daughter. At that time I had never 
ventured to look at or address her, but we school- 
children often spoke of her and called her “ the 
Beautiful Maiden," and whenever I saw her pass- 
ing along the street at a distance I was so happy 
that I could only think of the time when I should 
meet her nearer. Here in this leafy walk which 
leads to the church-yard, I met her one evening 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 


57 


and she took me by the arm, although we had 
never spoken together before, and asked me to 
go home with her. I believe neither of us spoke 
a word the whole way ; but I was so happy that 
even now, after all these years, I wish it were that 
evening, and that I could go home again, silently 
and blissfully, with ^‘the Beautiful Maiden.” 

Thus one memory follows another until the 
waves dash together over our heads, and a deep 
sigh swells the breast, which warns us that we 
have forgotten to breathe in the midst of these 
pure thoughts. Then all at once, the whole 
dream-world vanishes, like uprisen ghosts at the 
crowing of the cock. 

As I passed by the old castle and the lindens, 
and saw the sentinels upon their horses, how 
many memories awakened in my soul, and how 
everything had changed ! Many years had 
flown since I was at the castle. The Princess 
was dead. The Prince had given up his rule 
and gone back to Italy, and the oldest prince, 
with whom I had grown up, was regent His 


1)8 FOURTH MEMORY. 

companions were young noblemen and officers, 
whose intercourse was congenial to him, and 
whose company in our early days had often 
estranged us. Other circumstances combined 
to weaken our young friendship. Like every 
young man who perceives for the first time the 
lack of unity in the German folk- life, and the 
defects of German rule, I had caught up some 
phrases of the Liberal party, which sounded as 
strangely at court as unseemly expressions in an 
honest minister’s family. In short, it was many 
years since I had ascended those stairs, and yet 
a being dwelt in that castle whose name I had 
named almost daily, and who was almost con- 
stantly present in my memory. I had long dwelt 
upon the thought that I should never see her 
again in this life. She was transformed into an 
image which I felt neither did nor could exist 
in reality She had become my good angel — 
my other self, to whom I talked instead of talk- 
ing with myself. How she became so I could 
not explain to myself, for I scarcely knew her. 


J STORY OF GERMAN LOVE, 


sr 


Just as the eye sometimes pictures figures in the 
clouds, so I fancied my imagination had con- 
jured up this sweet image in the heaven of my 
childhood, and a complete picture of phantasy 
developed itself out of the scarcely perceptible 
outlines of reality. My entire thought had invol- 
untarily become a dialogue with her, and all that 
was good in me, all for which I struggled, all in 
which I believed, my entire better self, belonged 
to her. I gave it to her. I received it from 
her, from her my good angel. 

I had been at home but a few days, when I 
received a letter one morning. It was written 
in English, and came from the Countess Marie : 

Dear Friend: I hear you are with us for a short 
time. We have not met for many years, and if it is 
agreeable to you, I should like to see an old friend 
again. You will find me alone this afternoon in the 
Swiss Cottage. Yours sincerely, 

Marie. 

I immediately replied, also in English, that I 
would call in the afternoon. 


FOURTH MEMORY, 


JO 


The Swiss Cottage constituted a wing of the 
castle, which overlooked the garden, and could 
be reached without going through the castle 
yard. It was five o’clock when I passed through 
the garden and approached the cottage. I re- 
pressed all emotion and prepared myself for a 
formal meeting. I sought to quiet my good 
angel, and to assure her that this lady had 
nothing to do with her. And yet I felt very 
uneasy, and my good angel would not listen to 
counsel. Finally I took courage, murmuring 
something to myself about the masquerade of 
life, and rapped on the door, which stood ajar. 

There was no one in the room except a lady 
whom I did not know, and who likewise spoke 
English, and said the Countess would be present 
in a moment. She then left, and I was alone, 
and had time to look about. 

The walls of the room were of rose-chestnut, 
and over an openwork trellis, a luxuriant broad- 
leaved ivy twined around the whole room. All 
the tables and chairs were of carved rose-chesN 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE, 


6i 


nut. The floor was of variegated woodwork. It 
gave me a curious sensation to see so much that 
was familiar in the room. Many articles from 
our old play-room in the castle were old friends, 
but the others were new, especially the pictures, 
and yet they were the same as those in my Uni- 
versity room — the same portraits of Beethoven, 
Handel and Mendelssohn, as I had selected — 
hung over the grand piano. In one corner I saw 
the Venus di Milo, which I always regarded as 
the masterpiece of antiquity. On the table were 
volumes of Dante, Shakspeare, Tauler’s Sermons, 
the German Theology,” Ruckert’s Poems, Ten- 
nyson and Burns, and Carlyle’s “ Past and Pres- 
ent,” — the very same books — all of which I had 
had but recently in my hands. I was growing 
thoughtful, but I repressed my thoughts and was 
just standing before the portrait of the deceased 
Princess, when the door opened, and the same 
two servants, whom I had so often seen in child- 
hood, brought the Countess into the room upon 
her couch. 


62 


FOURTH MEMORY, 


What a vision ! She spoke not a word, an^ 
her countenance was as placid as the sea, until 
the servants left the room. Then her eyes 
sought me — the old, deep, unfathomable eyes. 
Her expression grew more animated each instant. 
At last her whole face lit up, and she said : 

“ We are old friends — I believe ; we have not 
changed. I cannot say ‘You,* and if I may not 
say ‘Thou,* then we must speak in English. Do 
you understand me.?** 

I had not anticipated such a reception, for I 
saw here was no masquerade — here was a soul 
which longed for another soul — here was a 
greeting like that between two friends who rec- 
ognize each other by the glance of the eye, not- 
withstanding their disguises and dark masks. 
I seized the hand she held out to me, and re- 
plied : “ When we address an angel, we cannot 
say ‘You.*** 

And yet how singular is the influence of the 
forms and habits of life ! How difficult it is to 
speak the language of nature even to the most 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 63 


congenial souls ! Our conversation halted, and 
both of us felt the embarrassment of the moment. 
I broke the silence and spoke out my thoughts : 
“ Men become accustomed to live from youth 
up as it were in a cage, and when they are once 
in the open air they dare not venture to use their 
wings, fearing, if they fly, that they may stumble 
against everything.” 

“Yes,” replied she, “and that is very proper 
and cannot well be otherwise. One often wishes 
that he could live like the birds which fly in the 
woods, and meet upon the branches and sing 
together without being presented to each other. 
But, my friend, even among the birds there are 
owls and sparrows, and in life it is well that one 
pass them without knowing them. It is 
sometimes with life as with poetry. As the real 
poet can express the Truest and most Beautiful, 
although fettered by metrical form, so man 
should know how to preserve freedom of thought 
and feeling notwithstanding the restraints of 
society.” 


/ 


64 PO UR TH MEMOR Y, 

I could not help recalling the words of 
Platen : “ That which proves itself everlasting 
under all circumstances, told in the fetters of 
words, is the unfettered spirit/' 

‘‘Yes," said she, with a cordial but sweetly 
playful smile; “but I have a privilege which is 
at the same time my burden and loneliness. I 
often pity the young men and maidens, for they 
cannot have a friendship or an intimacy without 
their relatives or themselves pronouncing it love, 
or what they call love. They lose much on this 
account. The maiden knows not what slumbers 
in her soul, and what might be awakened by 
earnest conversation with a noble friend ; and 
the young man in turn would acquire so much 
knightly virtue if women were suffered to be the 
distant witnesses of the inner struggles of the 
spirit. It will not do, however, for immediately 
love comes in play, or what they call love — the 
quick beating of the heart — the stormy billows 
of hope — the delight over a beautiful face — the 
sweet sentimentality — sometimes also prudent 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 65 


calculation — in short, all that troubles the calm 
sea, which is the true picture of pure human 
love ” 

She checked herself suddenly, and an expres- 
sion of pain passed over her countenance. “ I 
dare not talk more to-day,” said she; “my physi- 
cian will not allow it. I would like to hear one 
of Mendelssohn's songs — that duet, which my 
young friend used to play years ago. Is it not 
so.?” 

I could not answer, for as she ceased speak- 
ing and gently folded her hands, I saw upon her 
hand a ring. She wore it on her little finger — 
the ring which she had given me and I had 
given her. Thoughts came too fast for utter- 
ance, and I seated myself at the piano and 
played. When I had done, I turned around 
and said: “Would one could only speak thus 
in tones without words!” 

“That is possible,” said she; “I understood 
it all. But I must not do anything more to-day, 
for every day I grovj weaker. We must be better 


66 


FO UR TH MEM OR Y, 


acquainted, and a poor sick recluse may cer- 
tainly claim forbearance. We meet to-morrow 
evening, at the same hour; shall we hot.?’* 

I seized her hand and was about to kiss it, 
but she held my hand firmly, pressed it and 
said: ‘‘It is better thus. Good bye.” 



FIFTH MEMORY 


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FIFTH MEMORY. 


I T would be difficult to describe my thoughts 
and emotions as I went home. The soul 
cannot at once translate itself perfectly in words, 
and there are “ thoughts without words,” which 
in every man are the prelude of supreme joy and 
suffering. It was neither joy nor pain, only an 
indescribable bewilderment which I felt ; thoughts 
flew through my innermost being like meteors, 
which shoot from heaven towards earth but are 
extinguished before they reach the goal. As we 
sometimes say in a dream, ‘‘ I am dreaming,” sp 
I said to myself “ thou livest ” — “ it is she.” I 
tried again to reflect and calm myself, and said, 
“ She is a lovely vision — a very wonderful spirit.” 
At another time, I pictured the delightful even- 
ings I should pass during the holidays. But no. 


70 


FIFTH MEMORY. 


no, this cannot be. She is everything I sought, 
thought, hoped and believed. Here was at last 
a human soul, as clear and fresh as a spring 
morning. I had seen at the first glance what she 
was and how she felt, and we had greeted and 
recognized one another. And my good angel in 
me, she answered me no more. She was gone 
and I felt there was no place on earth where I 
should find her again. 

Now began a beautiful life, for I was with her 
every evening. We soon realized that we were 
in truth old acquaintances and that we could 
only call each other Thou. It seemed also as if 
we had lived near and with one another always, 
for she manifested not an emotion that did not 
find its counterpart in my soul, and there was no 
thought which I uttered to which she did not 
nod friendly assent, as much as to say: “I 
thought so too.’' I had previously heard the 
greatest master of our time and his sister extem- 
porize on the piano, and scarcely comprehended 
how two persons could understand and feel 


71 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE, 

themselves So perfectly and yet never, not even 
in a single note, disturb the harmony of their 
playing. Now it became intelligible to me. Yes, 
now I understood for the first time that my soul 
was not so poor and empty as it had seemed to 
me, and that it had been only the sun that was 
lacking to open all its germs and buds to the 
light. And yet what a sad and brief spring-time 
it was that our souls experienced ! We forget in 
May that roses so soon wither, but here every 
evening reminded us that one leaf after another 
was falling to the ground. She felt it before I 
did, and alluded to it apparently without pain, 
and our interviews grew more earnest and solemn 
daily. 

One evening, as I was about to leave, she 
said : “ I did not think I should grow so old. 
When I gave you the ring on my confirmation 
day I thought I should have to take my de- 
parture from you all, very soon. And yet I 
have lived so many years, and enjoyed so much 
b<^auty --and suffered so very much! But one 


72 


FIFTH MEMOR Y. 


forgets that! Now, while I feel that my de- 
parture is near, every hour, every minute, 
grows precious to me. Good night! Do not 
come too late to-morrow.” 

One day as I went into her room, I met an 
Italian painter with her. She spoke Italian with 
him, and although he was evidently more artisan 
than artist, she addressed him with such amia- 
bility and modesty, with such respect even, one 
could not avoid recognizing that nobility of soul 
which is the true nobility of birth. When the 
painter had taken his leave, she said to me : “I 
wish to show you a picture which will please 
you. The original is in the gallery at Paris. I 
read a description of it, and have had it copied 
by the Italian.” She showed me the painting, 
and waited my opinion. It was a picture of a 
man of middle age, in the old German costume. 
The expression was dreamy and resigned, and so 
characteristic that no one could doubt this man 
once lived. The whole tone of the picture in 
the foreground was dark and brownish; but in 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE, 


73 


the background was a landscape, and on the 
horizon the first gleams of daybreak appeared. 
I could discover nothing special in the picture, 
and yet it produced a feeling of such satisfaction 
that one might have tarried to look at it for 
hours at a time. “ There is nothing like a genu- 
ine human face,*' said I ; “ Raphael himself could 
not have imagined a face like this.** 

“ No,** said she. “ But now I will tell you 
why I wished to have the picture. I read that 
no one knew the artist, nor whom the picture 
represents. But it is very clearly a philosopher 
of the Middle Ages. Just such a picture I 
wanted for my gallery, for you are aware that 
no one knows the author of the ‘ German The- 
ology,* and moreover, that we have no picture of 
him. I wished to try whether the picture of an 
Unknown by an Unknown would answer for our 
German theologian, and if you have no objec- 
tions we will hang it here between the ‘Albi- 
genses * and the ‘ Diet of Worms,* and call it the 
‘German Theologian.*** 


'4 


FIFTH MEMORY. 


^‘Good/’ said I; “but it is somewhat too 
vigorous and manly for the Frankforter.” 

“That may he” replied she. “But for a suf- 
fering and dying life like mine, much consolation 
and strength may be derived from his book. I 
thank him much, for it disclosed to me for the 
first time the true secret of Christian doctrine 
in all its simplicity. I felt that I was free to 
believe or disbelieve the old teacher, whoever he 
may have been, for his doctrines had no external 
constraint upon me; at last it seized upon me 
with such power that it seemed to me I knew 
for the first time what revelation was. It is 
precisely this fact that bars so many out from 
true Christianity, namely : that its doctrines con- 
front us as revelation before revelation takes 
place in ourselves. This has often given me 
much anxiety ; not that I had ever doubted the 
truth and divinity of our religion, but I felt I had 
no right to a belief which others had given me, 
and that what I had learned and received when 
a child, without comprehending, did not belong 


A STORY OF GERMAN j^OVE. 


75 


to me. One can believe for us as little as one 
can live and die for us.” 

“ Certainly,” said I ; “ therein lies the cause 
of many hot and bitter struggles ; that the teach- 
ings of Christ, instead of winning our hearts 
gradually and irresistibly, as they won the hearts 
of the apostles and early Christians, confront us 
from the earliest childhood as the infallible law 
of a mighty church, and demand of us an un- 
conditional submission, which they call faith. 
Doubts arise sooner or later in the breast of 
every one who has the power of thinking and 
reverence for the truth ; and then even when we 
are on the right road, to overcome our faith, 
the terrors of doubt and unbelief arise and dis- 
turb the tranquil development of the new life.” 

“I read recently in an English work,” she 
interrupted, “that truth makes revelation, and 
not revelation truth. This perfectly expressed 
what I found in reading the ‘ German Theology.’ 
I read the book, and I felt the power of its 
truths so overwhelmingly that I was compelled 


76 


FIFTH MEMORY, 


to submit to it. The truth was revealed to me ; 
or rather, I was revealed to myself, and I felt 
for the first time what belief meant. The truth 
which had long slumbered in my soul belonged 
to me, but it was the word of the unknown 
teacher which filled me with light, illuminated 
my inner vision, and brought out my indistinct 
presentiments in fuller clearness before my soul. 
When I had thus experienced for the first time 
how the human soul can believe, I read the 
Gospels as if they, too, had been written by an 
unknown man, and banished the thought as well 
as I could that they were an inspiration from 
the ,Holy Ghost to the apostles, in some won- 
derful manner; that they had been endorsed by 
the councils and proclaimed by the church as 
the supreme authority of the alone-saving belief. 
Then, for the first time, I understood what Chris- 
tian faith and revelation were.** 

“It is wonderful,** said I, “that the theolo- 
gians have not broken down all religion, and 
they will succeed yet, if the believers do not 


^ STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 


77 


seriously confront them and say : ‘ Thus far but 
no farther.* Every church must have its ser- 
vants, but there has been as yet no religion 
which the Priests, the Brahmins, the Schamins, 
the Bonzes, the Lamas, the Pharisees, or the 
Scribes have not corrupted and perverted. They 
wrangle and dispute in a language unintelligible 
to nine-tenths of their congregations, and instead 
of permitting themselves to be inspired by the 
apostles, and of inspiring others with their inspi- 
ration, they construct long arguments to show 
that the Gospels must be true, because they 
were written by inspired men. But this is only 
a makeshift for their own unbelief. How can 
they know that these men were inspired in a 
wonderful manner, without ascribing to them- 
selves a still more wonderful inspiration } There- 
fore they extend the gift of inspiration to the 
fathers of the church; they attribute to them 
those very things which the majority have incor- 
porated in the canons of the councils ; and there 
again, when the question arises how we know 


78 


FIFTH MEMOR Y, 


that of fifty bishops twenty-six were inspired 
and twenty-four were not, they finally take the 
last desperate step, and say that infallibility and 
inspiration are inherent in the heads of the 
church down to the present day, through the 
laying on of hands, so that infallibility, majority 
and inspiration make all our convictions, all 
resignation, all devout intuitions, superfluous. 
And yet, notwithstanding all these connecting 
links, the first question returns in all its simpli- 
city: How can B know that A is inspired, if B 
is not equally, or even more, inspired than 
For it is of more consequence to know that A 
was inspired than for one’s self to be inspired.” 

“I^ave never comprehended this so clearly 
myself,” said she. “But I have often felt how 
difficult it must be to know whether one loves 
who shows not a sign of love that could not be 
imitated. And, again, I have thought that no 
one could know it unless he knew love himself, 
and that he could only believe in the love of 
another so far as he believed in his own love. 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 7V 

As with the gift of love so is it with the gift of 
the Holy Spirit. They upon whom it descended 
heard a rushing from heaven as of a mighty 
wind, and there appeared to them cloven tongues 
like as of fire. But the rest were either amazed 
and perplexed, or they made sport of them and 
said : ‘ They are full of sweet wine.* 

“ Still, as I said to you, it is the ‘ German 
Theology * to which I am indebted for learning 
to believe in my belief, and what will seem a 
weakness to many, strengthened me the most*, 
namely, that the old master never stops to dem- 
onstrate his propositions rigidly, but scatters 
them like a sower, in the hope that some grains 
will fall upon good soil and bear fruit a thousand 
fold. So our Divine Master never attempted to 
prove his doctrines, for the perfect conviction of 
truth disdains the form of a demonstration.’* 
“Yes,** I interrupted her, for I could not help 
ftiinking of the wonderful chain of proof in 
Spinoza’s ‘Ethics,* “the straining after demon- 
stration by Spinoza gives me the impression tha> 


8o 


FIFTH MEMORY, 


this acute thinker could not have believed in hi? 
own doctrines with his whole heart, and that he 
therefore felt the necessity of fastening every 
mesh of his net with the utmost care. “ Still,” I 
continued, “ I must acknowledge I do not share 
this great admiration for the ‘ German Theology,' 
although I owe the book many a doubt. To me 
there is a lack of the human and the poetical in 
it, and of warm feeling and reverence for reality 
altogether. The entire mysticism of the four- 
teenth century is wholesome as a preparative, but 
it first reaches solution in the divinely holy and 
divinely courageous return to real life, as was 
exemplified by Luther. Man must at some time 
in his life recognize his nothingness. He must 
feel that he is nothing of himself, that his exist- 
ence, his beginning, his everlasting life are rooted 
in the superearthly and incomprehensible. That 
is the returning to God which in reality is never 
concluded on earth but yet leaves behind in the 
soul a divine home sickness, which never again 
ceases. But man cannot ignore the creation as the 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 


8i 


Mystics would. Although created out of nothing, 
that is, through and out of God, he cannot of his 
own power resolve himself back into this noth- 
ingness. The self-annihilation of which Tauler 
so often speaks is scarcely better than the sink- 
ing away of the human soul in Nirvana, as the 
Buddhists have it. Thus Tauler says: ‘That 
if he by greater reverence and love could reach 
the highest existence in non-existence, he would 
willingly sink from his height into the deepest 
abyss.* But this annihilation of the creature was 
not the purpose of the Creator since he made it. 
‘God is transformed in man,* says Augustine, 
‘not man in God.* Thus mysticism should be 
only^ a fire-trial which steels the soul but does not 
evaporate it like boiling water in a kettle. He 
who has recognized the nothingness of self ought 
to recognize this self as a reflection of the actual 
divine. The ‘ German Theology * says : 

[„9Ba§ nu u§ gefIof§en ba§ t§t nid^t roar 
tueScn, unb l^at fetn roe^en onbcr§ ban in bent voU 
fomen, Sunbcr e§ i§t ein jufal obcr cin gla§t unb etn 
6 


82 


FIFTH MEMORY. 


bet nid^t i§t ober nid^t roeSen l^at anbcr§, 
ban in bem feraer, ba ber gla§t u§ flufSet, al§ in bet 
Sunnen ober in einem lied^te." ] 

“What has flown out is not real substance 
and has no other reality except in the perfect ; 
but it is an incident or a glare or a shimmer, 
which is no substance, and has no other reality, 
except in the fire from which a glare proceeds, 
as in the sun or a light/' 

“ What is emitted from the divine, though it 
be only like the reflection from the fire, still has 
the divine reality in itself, and one might almost 
ask what were the fire without glow, the sun with- 
out light, or the Creator without the creature? 
These are questions of which it is said very 
truthfully : 

[ „2Beld^ menfd^e unb n)eld^e creatur begert ju erfa? 
ten unb 5 U n)if§en ben l^eimlid^en rat unb raiKcn 
gotten, ber begert nid^t anberS benne aU 3lbam tet 
unb ber bo§e gei^t/' ] 

“ What man or creature desires to learn and 
to know the secret counsel and will of God— ^ 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 83 


desires nothing else but what Adam did and the 
evil spirit. 

“ For this reason, it should be enough for us 
to feel and to appear that we are a reflection of 
the divine until we are divine. No one should 
place under a bushel or extinguish the divine 
light which illuminates us, but let it beam out, 
that it may brighten and warm all about it. Then 
one feels a living fire in his veins, and a higher 
consecration for the struggle of life. The most 
trivial duties remind us of God. The earthly 
becomes divine, the temporal eternal, and our 
entire life a life in God. God is mot eternal 
repose. He is everlasting life, which Angelus 
Silesius forgets when he says : ‘ God is without 
will.’ 

* We pray : * Thy will my Lord and God be done/ 

And lo. He has no will! He is an eternal silence/” 

She listened to me quietly, and, after a mo- 
ment’s reflection, said: “Health and strength 
belong to your faith; but there are life-weary 


84 


FIFTH MEMORY, 


souls, who long for rest and sleep, and feel so 
lonely that when they fall asleep in God, they 
miss the world as little as the world misses them. 
It is a foretaste of divine rest to them when they 
can wrap themselves in the divine ; and this they 
can do, since no tie binds them fast to earth, and 
no wish troubles their hearts except the wish for 
rest. 

* Rest is the highest good, and were God not rest, 
Then would I avert my gaze even from Him.* 

^‘You do the German theologian . an injustice. 
It is true he teaches the nothingness of th^ 
external life, but he does not wish to see it anni- 
hilated. Read me the twenty-eighth chapter.” 

I took the book and read, while she closed 
her eyes and listened : 

[ ,,Unb tua btc ooretnungc gc§d^td^t in bcr roal^rl^ctt 
unb roeScntlid^ voxxt, ba §tet norbafs ber inner mcnSd^c 
in ber einung unBeniegltd^ unb got le§t ben uf§ern 
menSd^en l^er unb bar bemegt raerben non bieSem ju 
bent. ntuf§ unb §oI §tn unb geSd^el^en, baf§ ber 
ufSer menSd^c gprid^t unb e§ oud^ in ber ujarl^eit al§o 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 85 


t§t, ttJtl njeber §tn nod^ nit gin, roeber lebcn ober 
gterben, roifgen ober nid^t raifgen, tun ober lafgcn, 
unb oHeg bag bigem glid^ igt, gunber alleg, bag ba 
mufg unb gol gin unb gegd^el^en, ba bin id^ bereit 
unb gel^orgam ju, eg gi in libenber totge ober in 
tuenber mige." Unb algoe l^at ber ufger mengd^ fein 
marumbe ober gegud^, gunber alleine bem emigen 
millen genuf ju gin. 2Ban bag mirt befannt in ber 
Toarl^eit, bag ber inner mengd^e gten gol unbemeglid^ 
unb ber ufger mengd^ mufg unb gol bcmegt merben, 
unb l^at ber inner mengd^ in giner bemeglifcit ein 
marumb, bag igt anberg nid^tg bann ein mufg^ unb 
gol^gin, georbnet non bem emigen miHen. Unb ma 
got gelber ber mengd^ mere ober igt, ba igt eg algo. 
2)ag merfet man mol in ^rigto. Oud^ ma bag in 
gbtlid^em unb ug gotlid^em lied^te igt, ba igt nit geigts 
lid^e l^od^fart nod^ unad^tgame fril^eit ober frie gemute, 
gunber ein gruntloge bemutigfeit unb ein niber gc^ 
gd^lagen unb ein gegunfen betrubet gemut, unb alle 
orbenligfeit unb rebeligfeit, glid^l^eit unb marl^eit, 
fribc unb genuggamfeit, unb oKeg bag, bag alien 
tugenben ju gel^ort, bag mufg ba gin. SBa eg anberg 
igt, ba igt im nit red^t, alg oor gefprod^en ift. SBan 
red^t alg bigeg ober bag ju biger einung nit gel^clfen 
ober gebienen fan, algo igt oud^ nid^teg, bag eg geirren 
ober ge^inbem mag, benn alleine ber mengd^ mit 


86 


FIFTH MEMORY. 


Sinem eigen roiHen, ber tut im biSen grof§en S^aben* 
§ol man mifSen/' ] 

“And when the union takes place in truth 
and becomes real, then the inner man stands 
henceforth immovable in the union, and God 
permits the outer man to be driven hither and 
thither from this to that. It must and shall be 
and happen, that the outer man says — and is so 
also in truth — ‘I will neither be nor not be, 
neither live nor die, neither know nor not know, 
neither do nor leave undone — and everything 
which is similar to this, but I am ready and 
obedient to do everything, which must and shall 
be done, be it passively or actively.’ And thus 
has the outer man no question or desire, but to 
satisfy only the Eternal Will. When this will be 
known in truth, that the inner man shall stand 
immovable, and that the outer man shall and 
must be moved, — the inner man has a why and 
wherefore of his moving, which is nothing but 
an ‘ it must and shall be ’ ordered by the Eternal 
Will. And if God himself were or is the man, 
it would be so. This is well seen in Christ. 
And what in the Divine Light is and from the 
Divine Light, has neither spiritual pride nor 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 87 


careless license nor an independent spirit — but 
a great humility, and a broken and contrite 
heart, — and all propriety and honesty, justice 
and truth, peace and happiness, — all that be- 
longs to all virtues, it must have. When it is 
otherwise, then he is not happy, as has been 
said. When this does not help to this union, 
then there is nothing which may hinder it but 
man alone with his own will, which does him 
such great harm. That, one ought to know.” 

“ This is sufficient,” said she ; I believe we 
understand each other now. In another place, 
our unknown friend says still more unmistakably 
that no man is passive before death, and that the 
glorified man is like the hand of God, which 
does nothing of itself except as God wills; or, 
like a house in which God dwells. A God- 
possessed man feels this perfectly, but does not 
speak of it. He treasures his life in God like 
a love secret. It often seems to me like that 
silver poplar before my window. It is perfectly 
still at evening, and not a leaf trembles or stirs. 
When the morning breeze rustles and tosses 


88 


FIFTH MEMOR F. 


every leaf, the trunk with its branches stands still 
and immovable, and when autumn comes, though 
every leaf which once rustled falls to the ground 
and withers, the trunk waits for a new spring.” 

She had lived so deep a life in her world that 
I did not wish to disturb it. I had but just re- 
leased myself with difficulty from the magic 
circle of these thoughts, and scarcely knew 
whether she had not chosen the better part 
which could not be taken away from her ; while 
we have so much trouble and care. 

Thus every evening brought its new conversa- 
tion, and with each evening, some new phase of 
her fathomless mind disclosed itself. She kept 
no secret from me. Her talk was only thinking 
and feeling aloud, and what she said must have 
dwelt with her many long years, for she poured 
out her thoughts as freely as a child that picks 
its lap full of flowers and then sprinkles them 
upon the grass. I could not disclose my soul to 
her as freely as she did to me, and this oppressed 
and pained me. Yet how few can, with those 


A STORY OF GERMAN’ LOVE. 89 


continual deceptions imposed upon us by society, 
called manners, politeness, consideration, pru- 
dence, and worldly wisdom, which make our 
entire life a masquerade ! How few, even when 
they would, can regain the complete truth of 
their existence ! * Love itself dares not speak its 
own language and maintain its own silence, but 
must learn the set phrases of the poet and ideal- 
ize, sigh and flirt instead of freely greeting, 
beholding and surrendering itself. I would most 
gladly have confessed and said to her: “You 
know me not,” but I found that the words were 
not wholly true. Before I left, I gave her a vol- 
ume of Arnold’s poems, which I had had a short 
time, and begged her to read the one called “ The 
Buried Life.” It was my confession, and then I 
kneeled at her couch and said “Good Night.” 
“ Good Night,” said she, and laid her hand upon 
my head, and again her touch thrilled through 
every limb and the dreams of childhood uprose 
in my soul. I could not go, but gazed into her 
deep unfathomable eyes until the peace of her soul 


90 


FIFTH MEMOR K. 


completely overshadowed mine. Then I arose 
and went home in silence — and in the night I 
dreamed of the silver poplar around which the 
wind roared — but not a leaf stirred on its 
branches. 

THE BURIED LIFE. 

Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet 
Behold, with tears my eyes are wet; 

I feel a nameless sadness o’er me roll. 

Yes, yes, we know that we can jest ; 

We know, we know that we can smile; 

But there’s a something in this breast 
To which thy light words bring no rest. 

And thy gay smiles no anodyne. 

Give me thy hand, and hush awhile, 

And turn those limpid eyes on mine. 

And, let me read there, love, thy inmost souL 
Alas, is even love too weak 
To unlock the heart, and let it speak? 

Are even lovers powerless to reveal 
To one another what indeed they feel? 

I knew the mass of men concealed 
Their thoughts, for fear that if revealed 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 


91 


They would by other men be met 

With blank indifference, or with blame reproved; 

I knew they lived and moved. 

Tricked in disguises, alien to the rest 
Of men and alien to themselves — and yet. 

The same heart beats in every human breast. 

But we, my love — does a like spell benumb 
Our hearts — our voices ? — must we too be dumb ? 

Ah! well for us, if even we. 

Even for a moment, can yet free 
Our hearts and have our lips unchained: 

For that which seals them hath been deep ordained. 

Fate which foresaw 

How frivolous a baby man would be. 

By what distractions he would be possessed. 

How he would pour himself in every strife, 

And well-nigh change his own identity. 

That it might keep from his capricious play 
His genuine self, and force him to obey. 

Even in his own despite, his being’s law. 

Bade through the deep recesses of our breast 
The unregarded River of our Life, 

Pursue with indiscernible flow its way; 

And that we should not see 
The buried stream, and seem to be 


92 


FIFTH MEMORY, 


Eddying about in blind uncertainty. 

Though driving on with it eternally. 

But often, in the world’s most crowded streets, 

But often in the din of strife. 

There rises an unspeakable desire 
After the knowledge of our buried life; 

A thirst to spend our fire and restless force 
In tracking out our true original course; 

A longing to inquire 

Into the mystery of this heart that beats 

So wild, so deep, in us ; to know 

Whence our thoughts come, and where they go. 

And many a man in his own breast then delves, 

But deep enough, alas, none ever mines : 

And we have been on many thousand lines. 

And we have shown on each, talent and power. 

But hardly have we, for one little hour. 

Been on our own line, have we been ourselves; 
Hardly had skill to utter one of all 
The nameless feelings that course through our brea^^t^ 
But they course on forever unexpressed. 

And long we try in vain to speak and act 
Our hidden self, and what we say and do 
Is eloquent, is well — but ’tis not true. 

And then we will no more be racked 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 93 


With inward striving, and demand 
Of all the thousand nothings of the hour 
Their stupefpng power; 

Ah! yes, and they benumb us at our call: 

Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn. 

From the soul’s subterranean depth upborne, 

As from an infinitely distant land, 

Come airs and floating echoes, and convey 
A melancholy into all our day. 

Only — but this is rare — 

When a beloved hand is laid in ours. 

When, jaded with the rush and glare 
Of the interminable hours, 

Our eyes can in another’s eyes read clear, 

When our world-deafened ear 

Is by the tones of a loved voice caressed, — 

A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast. 

And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again : 

The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain. 

And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we 
know; 

A man becomes aware of his life’s flow. 

And hears its winding murmur, and he sees 
The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze. 

And there arrives a lull in the hot race 


94 


FIFTH MEMORY, 


Wherein he doth forever chase 
That flying and elusive shadow, Rest; 

An air of coolness plays upon his face. 

And an unwonted calm pervades his breast. 

And then he thinks he knows 
The Hills where his life rose, 

And the Sea where it goes 


SIXTH MEMORY. 


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E arly the next morning, there was a knock 
at the door, and my old doctor, the Hofrath, 
entered. He was the friend, the body-and-soul- 
guardian of our entire little village. He had 
seen two generations grow up. Children whom 
he had brought into the world had in turn be- 
come fathers and mothers, and he treated them 
as his children. He himself was unmarried, and 
even in his old age was strong and handsome to 
look upon. , I never knew him otherwise than as 
he stood before me at that time ; his clear blue 
eyes gleaming under the bushy brows^ his flow- 
ing white hair still full of youthful strength, curl- 
ing and vigorous. I can never forget, also, his 
shoes, with their silver buckles, his white stock- 
ings, his brown coat, which always looked new, 
and yet seemed to be old, and his cane, which 
7 


98 


SIXTH MEMOR Y. 


was the same I had seen standing by my bedside 
in childhood, when he felt my pulse and pre- 
scribed my medicines. I had often been sick, 
but it was always faith in this man which made 
me well again. I never had the slightest doubt 
of his ability to cure me, and when my mother 
said she must send for the Hofrath that I might 
get well again, it was as if she had said she must 
send for the tailor to mend my torn trousers. 
I had only to take the medicine, and I felt that 
I must be well again. 

“How are you, my child?’' said he, as he 
entered the room. “You are not looking per- 
fectly well. You must not study too much. But 
I have little time to-day to talk, and only came 
to tell you, you must not go to see the Countess 
Marie again. I have been with her all night, 
and it is your fault. So be careful, if her life is 
dear to you, that you do not go again. She 
must leave here as soon as possible, and be 
taken into the country. It would be best for 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE, 


99 


you also to travel for a long time. So good 
morning, and be a good child.'* 

With these words, he gave me his hand, 
looked at me affectionately in the eyes, as if he 
would exact the promise, and then went on his 
way to look after his sick children. 

I was so astonished that another had pene- 
trated so deeply into the secrets of my soul, and 
that he knew what I did not know myself, that 
when I recovered from it he had already been 
long upon the street. An agitation began to 
seize me, as water, which has long been over 
the fire without stirring, suddenly bubbles up> 
boils, heaves and rages until it overflows. 

Not see her again! I only live when I am 
with her. I will be calm; I will not speak a 
word to her ; I will only stand at her window as 
she sleeps and dreams. But not to see her 
again ! Not to take one farewell from her ! She 
knows not, they cannot know, that I love her. 
Surely I do not love her — I desire nothing, I 
hope for nothing, my heart never beats more 


lOO 


SIXTH MEMORY. 


quietly then when I am with her. But I must 
feel her presence — I must breathe her spirit — 
I must go to her ! She waits for me. Has des- 
tiny thrown us together without design } Ought 
I not to be her consolation, and ought she not 
to be my repose } Life is not a sport. It does 
not force two souls together like the grains of 
sand in the desert, which the sirocco whirls 
together and then asunder. We should hold fast 
the souls which friendly fate leads to us, for 
they are destined for us, and no power can tear 
them from us if we have the courage to live, to 
struggle, and to die for them. She would despise 
me if I deserted her love at the first roll of the 
thunder, as it were in the shadow of a tree, under 
which I have dreamed so many happy hours. 

Then I suddenly grew calm, and heard only 
the words “her love;” they reverberated through 
all the recesses of my soul like an echo, and I 
was terrified at myself. “Her love,” and how 
had I deserved it.^ She hardly knows me, and 
even if she could love me^ must I not confess 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 


lOI 


to her I do. not deserve the love of an angel? 
Every thought, every hope which arose in my 
soul, fell back like a bird which essays to soai 
into the blue sky and does not see the wires 
which restrain it. And yet, why all this bliss- 
fulness, so near and so unattainable? Cannot 
God work wonders? Does He not work won- 
ders every morning? Has He not often heard 
my prayer when it importuned him, and would 
not cease, until consolation and help came to 
the weary one ? These are not earthly blessings 
for which we pray. It is only that two souls, 
which have found and recognized each other, 
may be allowed to finish their brief life-joumey, 
arm in arm, and face to face ; that I may be a 
support to her in suffering, and that she may be 
a consolation and precious burden to me until 
we reach the end. And if a still later spring 
were promised to her life, if her burdens were 
taken from her — Oh, what blissful scenes crowded 
upon my vision ! The castle of her deceased 
mother, in the Tyrol, belonged to her. There, 


102 


SIXTH MEMORY. 


on the green mountains, in the fresh mountain 
air, among a sturdy and uncorrupted people, far 
away from the hurly-burly of the world, its cares 
and its struggles, its opinion and its censure, 
how blissfully we could await the close of life, 
and silently fade away like the evening-red ! 
Then I pictured the dark lake, with the dancing 
shimmer of waves, and the clear shadows of dis- 
tant glaciers reflected in it ; I heard the lowing 
of cattle and the songs of the herdsmen; I saw 
the hunters with their rifles crossing the mount- 
ains, and the old and young gathering together 
at twilight in the village ; and, to crown all, I saw 
her passing along like an angel of peace in bene- 
diction, and I was her guide and friend. “ Poor 
fool!” I cried out, “poor fool! Is thy heart 
always to be so wild and so weak } Be a man. 
Think who thou art, and how far thou art from 
her. She is a friend. She gladly reflects her- 
self in another's soul, but her childlike trust and 
candor at best only show that no deeper feeling 
lives in her breast for thee. Hast thou not, on 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 103 


many a clear summer's night, wandering alone 
through the beech groves, seen how the moon 
sheds its light upon all the branches and leaves, 
how it brightens the dark, dull water of the pool 
and reflects itself clearly in the smallest drops ? 
In like manner she shines upon this dark life, 
and thou may'st feel her gentle radiance re- 
flected in thy heart — but hope not for a warmer 
glow !" 

Suddenly an image approached me as it were 
from life ; she stood before me, not like a mem- 
ory but as a vision, and I realized for the first 
time how beautiful she was. It was not that 
beauty of form and face which dazzles us at the 
first sight of a lovely maiden, and then fades 
away as suddenly as a blossom in spring. It was 
much more the harmony of her whole being, the 
reality of every emotion, the spirituality of ex- 
pression, the perfect union of body and soul 
which blesses him so who looks upon it. The 
beauty which nature lavishes so prodigally does 
not bring any satisfaction, if the person is not 


104 


SIXTH MEMORY, 


adapted to it and as it were deserves and over- 
comes it. On the other hand, it is offensive, as 
when we look upon an actress striding along the 
stage in queenly costume, and notice at every 
step how poorly the attire fits her, how little it 
becomes her. True beauty is sweetness, and 
sweetness is the spiritualizing of the gross, the 
corporeal and the earthly. It is the spiritual 
presence which transforms ugliness into beauty. 
The more I looked upon the vision which stood 
before me, the more I perceived, above all else, 
the majestic beauty of her person and the soul- 
ful depths of her whole being. Oh, what happi- 
ness was near me ! And was this all — to be 
shown the summit of earthly bliss and then be 
thrust out into the flat, sandy wastes of existence? 
Oh, that I had never known what treasures the 
earth conceals! Once to love, and then to be 
forever alone ! Once to believe, and then forever 
to doubt 1 Once to see the light, and then for- 
ever to be blinded! In comparison with this 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 105 


rack, all the torture-chambers of man are insig- 
nificant. 

Thus rushed the wild chase of my thoughts 
farther and farther away until at last all was 
silent. The confused sensations gradually col- 
lected and settled. This repose and exhaustion 
they call meditation, but it is rather an inspection 
— one allows time for the mixture of thoughts 
to crystallize themselves according to eternal laws, 
and regards the process like an observing chem- 
ist ; and the elements having assumed a form, we 
often wonder that they, as well as ourselves, are 
so entirely different from what we expected. 

When I awoke from my abstraction, my first 
words were, “ I must away.** I immediately sat 
down and wrote the Hofrath that I should travel 
for fourteen days and submit entirely to him. 
I easily made an excuse to my parents, and at 
night I was on my way to the Tyrol. 









SEVENTH MEMORY. 




SEVENTH MEMORY. 


ANDERING, arm in arm with a friend, 



» ^ through the valleys and over the mount- 
ains of the Tyrol, one sips life's fresh air and 
enjoyment ; but to travel the same road solitary 
and alone with your thoughts is time and trouble 
lost. Of what interest to me are the green 
mountains, the dark ravines, the blue lake, and 
the mighty cataracts ? Instead of contemplating 
them they look at me and wonder among them- 
selves at this solitary being. It smote me to the 
heart that I 'had found no one in all the world 
who loved me more than all others. With such 
thoughts I awoke every morning, and they 
haunted me all the day like a song which one 
cannot drive away. When I entered the inn at 
night and sat down wearied, and the people in 
the room watched me, and wondered at the 


no 


SEVENTH MEMORY, 


solitary wanderer, it often urged me out into the 
night again, where no one could see I was alone. 
At a late hour I would steal back, go quietly up 
to my room and throw myself upon my hot bed, 
and the song of Schubert’s would ring through 
my soul until I went to sleep : “ Where thou art 
not, is happiness.” At last the sight of men, 
whom I continually met laughing, rejoicing and 
exulting in this glorious nature, became so intol- 
erable that I slept by day, and pursued my jour- 
ney from place to place in the clear moonlight 
nights. There was at least one emotion which 
dispelled and dissipated my thoughts: it was 
fear. Let any one attempt to scale mountains 
alone all night long in ignorance of the way — 
where the eye, unnaturally strained, beholds dis- 
tant shapes it cannot solve — where the ear, with 
hiorbid acuteness, hears sounds without knowing 
whence they come — where the foot suddenly 
stumbles, it may be over a root which forces its 
way through the rocks, or on a slippery path 
which the waterfall has drenched with its spray 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE, 


HI 


— and besides all this, a disconsolate waste in 
the heart, no memory to cheer us, no hope to 
which we may cling — let any one attempt this, 
and he will feel the cold chill of night both out- 
wardly and inwardly. The first fear of the 
human heart arises from God forsaking us ; but 
life dissipates it, and mankind, created after the 
image of God, consoles us in our solitariness. 
When even this consolation and love, however, 
forsake us, then we feel what it means to be 
deserted by God and man, and nature with her 
silent face terrifies rather than consoles us. 
Even when we firmly plant our feet upon the 
solid rocks, they seem to tremble like the mists 
of the sea from which they once slowly emerged. 
When the eye longs for the light, and the moon 
rises behind the firs, reflecting their tapering 
tops against the bright rock opposite, it appears 
to us like the dead hand of a clock which was 
onc$ wound up, and will some day cease to 
strike. There is no retreat for the soul, which 
feels itself alone and forsaken even among the 


£12 


SEVENTH MEMORY. 


stars, or in the heavenly world itself. One 
thought brings us a little consolation : the repose, 
the regularity, the immensity, and the unavoida- 
bleness of nature. Here, where the waterfall 
has clothed the gray rocks on either side with 
green moss, the eye suddenly recognizes a blue 
forget-me-not in the cool shade. It is one of 
millions of sisters now blossoming along all the 
rivulets and in all the meadows of earth, and 
which have blossomed ever since the first morn- 
ing of creation shed its entire inexhaustible 
wealth over the world. Every vein in its leaves, 
every stamen in its cup, every fibre of its roots, 
is numbered, and no power on earth can make 
the number more or less. Still more, when 
we strain our weak eyes and, with superhuman 
power, cast a more searching glance into the 
secrets of nature, when the microscope discloses 
to us the silent laboratory of the seed, the bud 
and the blossom, do we recognize the infinite, 
ever-recurring form in the most minute tissues 
and cells, and the eternal unchangeableness of 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 


1^3 


Nature's plans in the most delicate fibre. Could 
we pierce still deeper, the same form-world would 
reveal itself, and the vision would lose itself as 
in a hall hung with mirrors. Such an infinity as 
this lies hidden in this little flower. If we look 
up to the sky, we see again the same system — 
the moon revolving around the planets, the 
planets around suns, and the suns around new 
suns, while to the straining eye the distant star- 
nebulse themselves seem to be a new and beau- 
tiful world. Reflect then how these majestic 
constellations periodically revolve, that the sea-^ 
sons may change, that the seed of this forget^ 
me-not may shed itself again and again, the 
cells open, the leaves shoot out, and the blos- 
soms decorate the carpet of the meadow; and 
look upon the lady-bug which rocks itself in the 
blue cup of the flower, and whose awakening 
into life, whose consciousness of existence, whose 
living breath, are a thousand-fold more wonder- 
ful than the tissue of the flower, or the dead 

mechanism of the heavenly bodies. Consider 
8 


SEVENTH MEMORY, 


II4 


that thou also belongest to this infinite warp 
and woof, and that thou art permitted to com- 
fort thyself with the infinite creatures which 
revolve and live and disappear with thee. But 
if this All, with its smallest and its greatest, with 
its wisdom and its power, with the wonders of its 
existence, and the existence of its wonders, is the 
work of a Being in whose presence thy soul does 
not shrink back, before whom thou fullest pros- 
trate in a feeling of weakness and nothingness, 
and to whom thou risest again in the feeling of 
His love and mercy — if thou really feelest that 
something dwells in thee more endless and eter- 
nal than the cells of the flowers, the spheres of 
the planets, and the life of the insect — if thou 
recognizest in thyself as in a shadow the reflec- 
tion of the Eternal which illuminates thee — if 
thou feelest in thyself, and under and above 
thyself, the omnipresence of the Real, in which 
thy seeming becomes being, thy trouble, rest, 
thy solitude, universality — then thou knowest 
the One to Whom thou criest in the dark night 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 


115 


of life : Creator and Father, Thy will be done 
in Heaven as upon earth, and as on earth so 
also in me.” Then it grows bright in and about 
thee. The daybreak disappears with its cold 
mists, and a new warmth streams through shiver- 
ing nature. Thou hast found a hand which 
never again leaves thee, which holds thee when 
the mountains tremble and moons are extin- 
guished. Wherever thou may’st be, thou art with 
Him, and He with thee. He is the eternally 
near, and His is the world with its flowers and 
thorns. His is man with his joys and sorrows. 
“The least important thing does not happen 
except as God wills it.” 

With such thoughts I went on my way. At 
one time, all was well with me ; at another, 
troubled ; for even when we have found rest and 
peace in the lowest depths of the soul, it is still 
hard to remain undisturbed in this holy solitude. 
Yes, many forget it after they find it and scarcely 
know the way which leads back to it. 

Weeks had flown, and not a syllable had 


ii6 


SEVENTH MEMORY, 


reached me from her. “Perhaps she is dead 
and lies in quiet rest,” was another song forevei 
on my tongue, and always returning as often as 
I drove it from me. It was not impossible, for 
the Hofrath had told me she suffered with heart 
troubles, and that he expected to find her no 
more among the living every morning he visited 
her. Could I ever forgive myself if she had left 
this world and I had not taken farewell of her, 
nor told her at the last moment how I loved her.? 
Must 1 not follow until I found her again in 
another life, and heard from her that she loved 
me and that I was forgiven .? How mankind 
defers from day to day the best it can do, and 
the most beautiful things it can enjoy, without 
thinking that every day may be the last one, and 
that lost time is lost eternity ! Then all the 
words of the Hofrath, the last time I saw him, 
recurred to me, and I felt that I had only re- 
solved to make my sudden journey to show my 
strength to him, and that it would have been a 
still more difficult task to have confessed my 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 


117 


weakness and remained. It was clear to me that 
it was my simple duty to return to her imme- 
diately and to bear everything which Heaven 
ordained. But as soon as I had laid the plan 
for my return journey, I suddenly remembered 
the words of the Hofrath : “ As soon as possible 
she must go away and be taken into the coun- 
try.*' She had herself told me that she spent 
the most of her time, in summer, at her castle. 
Perhaps she was there, in my immediate vicinity ; 
in one day I could be with her. Thinking was 
doing; at daybreak I was off, and at evening I 
stood at the gate of the castle. 

The night was clear and bright. The mount- 
ain peaks glistened in the full gold of the sun- 
set and the lower ridges were bathed in a rosy 
blue. A gray mist rose from the valleys which 
suddenly glistened when it swept up into the 
higher regions, and then like a cloud-sea rolled 
heavenwards. The whole color-play reflected 
itself in the gently agitated breast of the dark 
lake from whose shores the mountains seemed to 


ii8 


SEVENTH MEMORY. 


rise and fall, so that only the tops of the trees 
and the peaks of the church steeples and the 
rising smoke from the houses defined the limits 
which separated the reality of the world from 
its reflection. My glance, however, rested upon 
only one spot — the old castle — where a present- 
iment told me I should fipd her again. No light 
could be seen in the windows, no footstep broke 
the silence of the night. Had my presentiment 
deceived me ? I passed slowly through the outer 
gateway and up the steps until I stood at the 
fore-court of the castle. Here I saw a sentinel 
pacing back and forwards, and I hastened to the 
soldier to inquire who was in the castle. “ The 
Countess and her attendants are here,” was the 
brief reply, and in an instant I stood at the main 
portal and had even pulled the bell. Then, for 
the first time, my action occurred to me. No 
one knew me. I neither could nor dare say who 
I was. I had wandered for weeks about the 
mountains, and looked like a beggar. What 
should I say? For whom should I ask? There 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 


119 


was little time for consideration, however, for the 
door opened and a servant in princely livery 
stood before me, and regarded me with amaze- 
ment. 

I asked if the English lady, who I knew 
would never forsake the Countess, was in the 
castle, and when the servant replied in the affirm- 
ative, I begged for paper and ink and wrote her 
I was present to inquire after the health of the 
Countess. 

The servant called an attendant, who took the 
letter away. I heard every step in the long halls, 
and every moment I waited, my position became 
more unendurable. The old family portraits of 
the princely house hung upon the walls — knights 
in full armor, ladies in antique costume, and in 
the center a lady in the white robes of a nun 
with a red cross upon her breast. At any other 
time I might have looked upon these pictures 
and never thought that a human heart once beat 
in their breasts. But now it seemed to me I 
could suddenly read whole volumes in their feat- 


120 


SEVENTH MEMORY, 


ures, and that all of them said to me : “We also 
have once lived and suffered.” Under these iron 
armors secrets were once hidden as even now in 
my own breast. These white robes and the red 
cross are real proofs that a battle was fought here 
like that now raging in my own heart. Then I 
fancied all of them regarded me with pity, and 
a loftier haughtiness rested on their features as 
if they would say, Thou dost not belong to us. 
I was growing uneasy every moment, when sud- 
denly a light step dissipated my dream. The 
English lady came down the stairs and asked me 
to step into an apartment. I looked at her 
closely to see if she suspected my real emotions, 
but her face was perfectly calm, and without 
manifesting the slightest expression of curiosity 
or wonder, she said in measured tones, the 
Countess was much better to-day and would see 
me in half an hour. 

When I heard these words, I felt like the 
good swimmer who has ventured far out into 
the sea, and first thinks of returning when his 




A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 


I2I 


arms have begun to grow weary. He cleaves 
the waves with haste, scarcely venturing to 
cast a glance at the distant shore, feeling 
with every stroke that his strength is failing 
and that he is making no headway, until at 
last, purposeless and cramped, he scarcely has 
any realization of his position; then suddenly 
his foot touches the firm bottom, and his arm 
hugs the first rock on the shore. A fresh re- 
ality confronted me, and my sufferings were a 
dream. There are but few such moments in 
the life of man, and thousands have never 
known their rapture. The mother whose child 
rests in her arms for the first time, the father 
whose only son returns from war covered with 
glory, the poet in whom his countrymen exult, 
the youth whose warm grasp of the hand is 
returned by the beloved being with a still 
warmer pressure — they know what it means 
when a dream becomes a reality. 

At the expiration of the half hour, a ser- 
vant came and conducted me through a long 


122 


SEVENTH MEMORY, 


suite of rooms, opened a door, and in the fad- 
ing light of the evening I saw a white figure, 
and above her a high window, which looked 
out upon the lake and the shimmering mount- 
ains. 

“How singularly people meet!** she cried out 
in a clear voice, and every word was like a cool 
rain-drop on a hot summer*s day. 

“How singularly people meet, and how sin- 
gularly they lose each other,** said I ; and there- 
upon I seized her hand, and realized that we 
were together again. 

“But people are to blame if they lose each 
other,** she continued ; and her voice, which 
seemed always to accompany her words, like 
music, involuntarily modulated into a tenderer 
key. 

“Yes, that is true,’* I replied; “but first tell 
me, are you well, and can I talk with you.^** 

“My dear friend,** said she, smiling, “you 
know I am always sick, and if I say that I feel 
well, I do so for the sake of my old Hofrath; 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 


123 


for he is firmly convinced that my entire life 
since my first year is due to him and his skill. 
Before I left the Court-residence I caused him 
much anxiety, for one evening my heart sud- 
denly ceased beating, and I experienced such 
distress that I thought it would never beat 
again. But that is past, and why should we 
recall it } Only one thing troubles me. I have 
hitherto believed I should some time close my 
eyes in perfect repose, but now I feel that my 
sufferings will disturb and embitter my depart- 
ure from life.” Then she placed her hand 
upon her heart, and said : “ But tell me, where 
have you been, and why have I not heard from 
you all this time.^ The old Hofrath has given 
me so many reasons for your sudden departure, 
that I was finally compelled to tell him I did 
not believe him — and at last he gave me the 
most incredible of all reasons, and counselled — 
what do you suppose.?” 

“He might seem untruthful,” I interrupted, 
so that she should not explain the reason, “ and 


124 


SEVENTH MEMORY, 


yet, perhaps he was only too truthful. But 
this also is past, and why should we recall it.?’* 
“No, no, my friend,” said she, “why call it 
past .? I told the Hofrath, when he gave me the 
last reason for your sudden departure, that I 
understood neither him nor you. I am a poor 
sick, forsaken being, and my earthly existence 
is only a slow death. Now if Heaven sends 
me a few souls who understand me, or love me, 
as the Hofrath calls it, why then should it dis- 
turb their joy or mine .? I had been reading 
my favorite poet, the old Wordsworth, when 
the Hofrath made his acknowledgment, and 
I said : ‘ My dear Hofrath, we have so many 
thoughts and so few words that we must ex- 
press many thoughts in every word. Now if 
one who does not know us understood that our 
young friend loved me, or I him, in such man- 
ner as we suppose Romeo loved Juliet and 
Juliet Romeo, you would be entirely right in 
saying it should not be so. But is it not true 
that you love me also, my old Hofrath, and 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE, 


125 


that I love you, and have loved you for many 
years? And has it not sometimes occurred to 
you that I have neither been past remedy nor 
unhappy on that account? Yes, my dear Ho- 
frath, I will tell you still more — I believe you 
have an unfortunate love for me, and are jeal- 
ous of our young friend. Do you not come 
every morning and inquire how I am, even 
when you know I am very well ? Do you not 
bring me the finest flowers from your garden? 
Did you not oblige me to send you my portrait, 
and — perhaps I ought not to disclose it — did 
you not come to my room last Sunday and think 
I was asleep? I was really sleeping — at least 
I could not stir myself. I saw you sitting at 
my bedside for a long time, your eyes stead- 
fastly fixed upon me, and I felt your glances 
playing upon my face like sunbeams. At last 
your eyes grew weary, and I perceived the 
great tears falling from them. You held your 
face in your hands, and loudly sobbed: Marie, 
Marie ! Ah, my dear Hofrath, our young friend 


126 


SEVENTH MEMORY, 


has never done that, and yet you have sent him 
away.* As I thus talked with him, half in jest 
and half in earnest, as I always speak, I per- 
ceived that I had hurt the old man’s feelings. 
He became perfectly silent, and blushed like 
a child. Then I look the volume of Words- 
worth’s poems which I had been reading, and 
said: ‘Here is another old man whom I love, 
and love with my whole heart, who understands 
me, and whom I understand, and yet I have 
never seen him, and shall never see him on 
earth, since it is so to be. Now I will read 
you one of his poems, that you may see how 
one can love, and that love is a silent benedic- 
tion which the lover lays upon the head of the 
beloved, and then goes on his way in raptur- 
ous sorrow.’ Then I read to him Wordsworth’s 
‘ Highland Girl ;’ and now, my friend, place the 
lamp nearer, and read the poem to me, for it 
refreshes me every time I hear it. A spirit 
breathes through it like the silent, everlasting 
evening-red, which stretches its arms in love 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 


127 


and blessing over the pure breast of the snow- 
covered mountains.” 

As her words thus gradually and peacefully 
filled my soul, it at last grew still and solemn in 
my breast again; the storm was over, and hei 
image floated like the silvery moonlight upon 
the gently rippling waves of my love — this 
world-sea which rolls through the hearts of all 
men, and which each calls his own while it is 
an all-animating pulse-beat of the whole human 
race. I would most gladly have kept silent 
like Nature as it lay before our view without, 
and ever grew stiller and darker : But she 
gave me the book, and I read: 

Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower 
Of beauty is thy earthly dower ! 

Twice seven consenting years have shed 
Their utmost bounty on thy head: 

And these gray rocks, that household lawn, 
Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn. 

This fall of water that doth make 
A murmur near the silent lake. 


128 


SEVENTH MEMORY, 


This little bay; a quiet road 
That holds in shelter thy abode — 

In truth, together do ye seem 
Like something fashioned in a dream; 
Such forms as from their covert peep 
When earthly cares are laid asleep! 
But, O fair creature! in the light 
Of common day, so heavenly bright, 

I bless thee, vision as thou art, 

I bless thee with a human heart; 

God shield thee to thy latest years! 
Thee neither know I, nor thy peers; 
And yet my eyes are filled with tears. 

With earnest feeling I shall pray 
For thee when I am far away: 

For never saw I mien or face. 

In which more plainly I could trace 
Benignity and home-bred sense 
Ripening in perfect innocence. 

Here scattered, like a random seed, 
Remote from men, thou dost not need 
The embarrassed look of shy distress, 
And maidenly shamefacedness: 

Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear 
The freedom of a mountaineer: 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE, 


129 


A face with gladness overspread! 

Soft smiles, by human kindness bred! 
And seemliness complete, that sways 
Thy courtesies, about thee plays ; 

With no restraint, but such as springs 
From quick and eager visitings 
Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach 
Of thy few words of English speech: 

A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife 
That gives thy gestures grace and life! 
So have I, not unmoved in mind. 

Seen birds of tempest-loving kind — 
Thus beating up against the wind. 

What hand but would a garland cull 
For thee who art so beautiful? 

O happy pleasure! here to dwell 
Beside thee in some heathy dell; 

Adopt your homely ways and dress, 

A shepherd, thou a shepherdess : 

But I could frame a wish for thee 
More like a grave reality: 

Thou art to me but as a wave 
Of the wild sea ; and I would have 
Some claim upon thee, if I could, 
Though but of common neighborhoodr 


9 


130 SEVENTH MEMORY. 


What joy to hear thee, and to see! 

Thy elder brother I would be. 

Thy father — anything to thee! 

Now thanks to heaven! that of its grace 
Hath led me to this lonely place. 

Joy have I had ; and going hence 
I bear away my recompense. 

In spots like these it is we prize 
Our memory, feel that she hath eyes: 

Then why should I be loth to stir? 

I feel this place was made for her; 

To give new pleasure like the past. 

Continued long as life shall last. 

Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart. 

Sweet Highland Oirl, from thee to part ; 

For I, me thinks, till I grow old. 

As fair before me shall behold, 

As I do now, the cabin small, 

. The lake, the bay, the waterfall. 

And thee, the spirit of them all! 

I had finished, and the poem had been to me 
like a draught of the fresh spring-water which I 
had sipped so often of late as it dropped from 
the cup of some large green leaf. 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE, 


131 


Then I heard her gentle voice, like the first 
tone of the organ, which wakens us from our 
dreamy devotion, and she said: 

“ Thus I desire you to love me, and thus the 
old Hofrath loves me, and thus in one way or 
another we should all love and believe in each 
other. But the world, although I scarcely know 
it, does not seem to understand this love and 
faith, and, on this earth, where we could have 
lived so happily, men have made existence very 
wretched. 

“It must have been otherwise of old, else 
how could Homer have created the lovely, 
wholesome, tender picture of Nausikaa? Nau- 
sikaa loves Ulysses at the first glance. She says 
at once to her female friends : ‘ Oh, that I could 
call such a man my spouse, and that it were his 
destiny to remain here.' She was even too 
modest to appear in public at the same time 
with him, and she says, in his presence, that if 
she should bring such a handsome and majestic 
stranger home, the people would say, she may 


132 


SEVENTH MEMORY. 


have taken him for a husband. How simple 
and natural all this is! But when she heard 
that he was going home to his wife and children, 
no murmur escaped her. She disappears from 
our sight, and we feel that she carried the pic- 
ture of the handsome and majestic stranger a 
long time afterward in her breast, with silent and 
joyful admiration. Why do not our poets know 
this love — this joyful acknowledgment, this calm 
abnegation.? A later poet would have made a 
womanish Werter out of Nausikaa, for the reason 
that love with us is nothing more than the pre- 
lude to the comedy, or the tragedy, of marriage. 
Is it true there is no longer any other love.? 
Has the fountain of this pure happiness wholly 
dried up.? Are men only acquainted with the 
intoxicating draught, and no longer with the 
invigorating well-spring of love ?” 

At these words the English poet occurred to 
me, who also thus complains: 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 133 


From heaven if this belief be sent, 

If such be nature’s holy plan, 

Have I not reason to lament 
What man has made of man. 

“Yet, how happy the poets are,” said she. 
“ Their words call the deepest feelings into exist- 
ence in thousands of mute souls, and how often 
their songs have become a confession of the 
sweetest secrets ! Their heart beats in the 
breasts of the poor and the rich. The happy 
sing with them, and the sad weep with them. 
But I cannot feel any poet so completely my 
own as Wordsworth. I know many of my friends 
do not like him. They say he is not a poet. 
But that is exactly why I like him ; he avoids all 
the hackneyed poetical catch-words, all exagger- 
ation, and everything comprehended in Pegasus- 
flights. He is true — and does not everything 
lie in this one word 1 He opens our eyes to the 
beauty which lies under our feet like the daisy 
in the meadow. He calls everything by its true 
name. He never intends to startle, deceive, or 


134 


SEVENTH MEMORY. 


dazzle any one. He seeks no admiration for 
himself. He only shows mankind how beautiful 
everything is which man’s hand has not yet 
spoiled or broken. Is not a dew-drop on a 
blade of grass more beautiful than a pearl set in 
gold.^ Is not a living spring, which gushes up 
before us, we know not whence, more beautiful 
than all the fountains of Versailles.? Is not his 
Highland Girl a lovelier and truer expression of 
real beauty than Goethe’s Helena, or Byron’s 
Haidee.? And then the • plainness of his lan- 
guage, and the purity of his thoughts ! Is it not 
a pity that we have never had such a poet.? 
Schiller could have been our Wordsworth, had 
he had more faith in himself than in the old 
Greeks and Romans. Our Ruckert would come 
the nearest to him, had he not also sought con- 
solation and home under Eastern roses, away 
from his poor Fatherland. Few poets have the 
courage to be just what they are. Wordsworth 
had it; and as we gladly listen to great men, 
even in those moments when they are not 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE, 


135 


inspired, but, like other mortals, quietly cherish 
their thoughts, and patiently wait the moment 
that will disclose new glimpses into the infinite, 
so have I also listened gladly to Wordsworth 
himself, in his poems, which contain nothing 
more than any one might have said. The 
greatest poets allow themselves rest. In Homer 
we often read a hundred verses without a single 
beauty, and just so in Dante ; while Pindar, whom 
all admire so much, drives me to distraction 
with his ecstacies. What would I not give to 
spend one summer on the lakes; visit with 
Wordsworth all the places to which he has given 
names; greet all the trees which he has saved 
from the axe; and only once watch a far-off 
sunset with him, which he describes as only 
Turner could have painted.” 

It was a peculiarity of hers that her voice 
never dropped at the close of her talk, as with 
most people ; on the contrary, it rose and always 
ended, as it were, in the broken seventh chord. 
She always talked up, never down, to people. 


13 ^ 


SEVENTH MEMORY. 


The melody of her sentences resembled that of 
the child when it says: “Can’t I, father?” There 
was something beseeching in her tones, and it 
was well-nigh impossible to gainsay her. 

“Wordsworth,” said I, “is a dear poet, and a 
still dearer man to me, and as one often has a 
more beautiful, wide-spread, and stirring outlook 
from a little hill which he ascends without effort, 
than when he has clambered up Mont Blanc 
with difficulty and weariness, so it seems to me 
with Wordsworth’s poetry. At first, he often 
appeared commonplace to me, and I have fre- 
quently laid down his poems unable to under- 
stand how the best minds of England to-day can 
cherish such an admiration for him. The con- 
viction has grown upon me that no poet whom 
his nation, or the intellectual aristocracy of his 
people, recognize as a poet, should remain un- 
enjoyed by us, whatever his language. Admira- 
tion is an art which we must learn. Many 
Germans say Racine does not please them. The 
Englishman says, ‘I do not understand Goethe.* 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 


137 


The Frenchman says Shakespeare is a boor. 
What does all this amount to.*^ Nothing more 
than the child who says it likes a waltz better 
than a symphony of Beethoven’s. The art con- 
sists in discovering and understanding what each 
nation admires in its great men. He who seeks 
beauty will eventually find it, and discover that 
the Persians are not entirely deceived in their 
Hafiz, nor the Hindoos in their Kalidasa. We 
cannot understand a great man all at once. It 
takes strength, effort, and perseverance, and it is 
singular that what pleases us at first sight seldom 
captivates us any length of time. 

“And yet,” she continued, “there is some- 
thing common to all gre^t poets, to all true 
artists, to all the world’s heroes, be they Persian 
or Hindoo, heathen or Christian, Roman or Ger- 
man; it is — I hardly know what to call it — it 
is the Infinite which seems to lie behind them, a 
far away glance into the Eternal, an apotheosis 
of the most trifling and transitory things. Goethe 


138 


SEVENTH MEMORY. 


the grand heathen, knew the sweet peace which 
comes from Heaven; and when he sings: 

On every mountain-height 
Is rest. 

O’er each summit white 
Thou feelest 
Scarcely a breath. 

The bird songs are still from each bough; 

Only wait, soon shalt thou 
Rest too, in death. 

does not an endless distance, a repose which 
earth cannot give, disclose itself to him above 
the fir-clad summits 1 This background is never 
wanting with Wordsworth. Let the carpers say 
what they will, it is nevertheless only the super- 
earthly, be it ever so obscure, which charms and 
quiets the human heart. Who has better under- 
stood this earthly beauty than Michel Angelo.? 
— but he understood it, because it was to him 
a reflection of superearthly beauty. You know 
his sonnet: 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 


139 


[La forza d’lin bel volto al ciel mi sprona 
(Ch’altro in terra non e che mi diletti), 

E vivo ascendo tra gli spirti eletti ; 

Grazia ch’ad uom mortal raro si dona. 

Si ben col suo Fattor Topra consuona, 

Ch’a lui mi levo per divin concetti ; 

E quivi informo i pensier tutti e i detti ; 
Ardendo, amando per gentil persona. 

Onde, se mai da due begli occhi il guardo 
Torcer non so, conosco in lor la luce 
Che mi mostra la via, ch'a Dio mi guide; 

E se nel lume loro acceso io ardo, 

Nel nobil foco mio dolce riluce 
La gioja che nel cielo eterna ride.”] 

“The might of one fair face sublimes my love, 

For it hath weaned my heart from low desires; 
Nor death I heed nor purgatorial fires. 

Thy beauty, antepast of joys above 
Instructs me in the bliss that saints approve; 

For, Oh! how good, how beautiful must be 
The God that made so good a thing as thee. 

So fair an image of the Heavenly Dove. 

Forgive me if I cannot turn away 

From those sweet eyes that are my earthly heaven, 


140 


SEVENTH MEMORY. 


For they are guiding stars, benignly given 
To tempt my footsteps to the upward way; 
And if I dwell too fondly in thy sight, 

I live and love in God’s peculiar light.” 


She was exhausted and silent, and how could I 
disturb that silence 1 When human hearts, after 
friendly interchange of thoughts feel calmed and 
quieted, it is as if an angel had flown through 
the room and we heard the gentle flutter of wings 
over our heads. As my gaze rested upon her, 
her lovely form seemed illuminated in the twi- 
light of the summer evening, and her hand, 
which I held in mine, alone gave me the con- 
sciousness of her real presence. Then suddenly 
a bright refulgence spread over her countenance. 
She felt it, opened her eyes and looked upon me 
wonderingly. The wonderful brightness of her 
eyes, which the half-closed eyelids covered as 
with a veil, shone like the lightning. I looked 
around and at last saw that the moon had arisen 
in full splendor between two peaks opposite the 
castle, and brightened the lake and the village 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 141 

with its friendly smiles. Never had I seen Na- 
ture, never had I seen her dear face so beautiful, 
never had such holy rest settled down upon my 
soul. “ Marie,” said I, “ in this resplendent mo- 
ment, let me, just as I am, confess my whole 
love. Let us, while we feel so powerfully the 
nearness of the superearthly, unite our souls in 
a tie which can never again be broken. What- 
ever love may be, Marie, I love you and I feel, 
Marie, you are mine for I am thine.” 

I knelt before her, but ventured not to look 
into her eyes. My lips touched her hand and I 
kissed it. At this she withdrew her hand from 
me, slowly at first and then quickly and decided- 
ly, and as I looked at her an expression of pain 
was on her face. She was silent for a time, but 
at last she raised herself and said with a deep 
sigh: 

“Enough for to-day. You have caused me 
pain, but it is my fault. Close the window. I 
feel a cold chill coming over me as if a strange 
hand were touching me. Stay with me — but no. 


142 


SE VENTH MEM OR Y. 


you must go. Farewell! Sleep well! Pray that 
the peace of God may abide with us. We see 
each other again — shall we not.^ To-morrow 
evening I await you.** 

Oh., where all at once had this heavenly rest 
flown I saw how she suffered, and all that I 
could do was to quickly hurry away, summon 
the English lady and then go alone in the dark- 
ness of night to the village. Long time I wan- 
dered back and forth about the lake, long my 
gaze strayed to the lighted window where I had 
just been. Finally, the last light in the castle 
was extinguished. The moon mounted higher 
and higher, and every pinnacle and projection 
and decoration on the lofty walls grew visible in 
the fairy-like illumination. Here was I all alone 
in the silent night. It seemed to me my brain 
had refused its office, for no thought came to an 
end and I only felt I was alone on this earth, 
that it contained no soul for me. The earth 
was like a coffin, the black sky a funeral pall, 
and I scarcely knew whether I was living or had 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 


143 


long been dead. Then I suddenly looked up to 
the stars with their blinking eyes, which went 
their way so quietly — and it seemed to me that 
they were only for the lighting and consolation 
of men, and then I thought of two heavenly stars 
which had risen in my dark heaven so unex- 
pectedly, and a thanksgiving rang through my 
breast — a thanksgiving for the love of my angel. 



LAST MEMORY. 







LAST MEMORY. 


HE sun was already looking into my win 



A dow over the mountains when I awoke. 
Was it the same sun which looked upon us the 
evening before with lingering gaze, like a de- 
parting friend, as if it would bless the union 
of our souls, and which set like a lost hope? 
It shone upon me now, like a child which 
bursts into our room with beaming glance to 
wish us good morning on a joyful holiday. 
And was I the same man who, only a few 
hours before, had thrown himself upon his bed, 
broken in body and spirit ? Immediately I felt 
once more the old life-courage and trust in 
God and myself, which quickened and ani- 
mated my soul like the fresh morning breeze. 
What would become of man without sleep? 
We know not where this nightly messenger 


148 


LAST MEMORY. 


leads us ; and when he closes our eyes at night 
who can assure us that he will open them 
again in the morning — that he will bring us 
to ourselves? It required courage and faith 
for the first man to throw himself into the 
arms of this unknown friend; and were there 
not in our nature a certain helplessness which 
forces us to submission, and compels us to 
have faith in all things we are to believe, I 
doubt whether any man, notwithstanding all his 
weariness, could close his eyes of his own free 
will and enter into this unknown dream-land. 
The very consciousness of our weakness and 
our weariness gives us faith in a higher power, 
and courage to resign ourselves to the beauti- 
ful system of the All, and we feel invigorated 
and refreshed when, in waking or in sleeping 
we have loosened, even for a short time only, 
the chains which bind our Eternal Self to ouj 
temporal Ego. 

What had appeared to me, only yesterday^ 
dark as an evening cloud flying overhead, be- 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE, 


149 


came instantly clear. We belonged to one 
another, that I felt; be it as brother and sis- 
ter, father and child, bridegroom and bride, we 
must remain together now and forever. It only 
concerned us to find the right name for that 
which we in our stammering speech call Love. 

" Thy elder brother I would be. 

Thy father — anything to thee.” 

It was this “ anything ” for which a name must 
be found, for the world now recognizes nothing 
as nameless. She had told me herself that she 
loved me with that pure all-human love, out 
of which springs all other love. Her shudder- 
ing, her uneasiness, when I confessed my full 
love to her, were still incomprehensible to me, 
but it could no longer shatter my faith in our 
love. Why should we desire to understand all 
that takes place in other human natures, when 
there is so much that is incomprehensible in 
our own.? After all, it is the inconceivable 
which generally captivates us, whether in na- 


LAST MEMORY. 


;so 

ture, in man, or in our own breasts. Men 
whom we understand, whose motives we see 
before us like an anatomical preparation, leave 
us cold, like the characters in most of our 
novels. Nothing spoils our delight in life and 
men more than this ethic rationalism which 
insists upon clearing up everything, and illu- 
minating every mystery of our inner being. 
There is in every person a something that is 
inseparable — we call it fate, the suggestive 
power or character — and he knows neither 
himself nor mankind, who believes that he can 
analyze the deeds and actions of men without 
taking into account this ever-recurring prin- 
ciple. Thus I consoled myself on all those 
points which had troubled me in the evening; 
and at last no streak of cloud obscured the 
heaven of the future. 

In this frame of mind I stepped out of the 
close house into the open air, when a mes- 
senger brought a letter for me. It was from 
the Countess, as I saw by the beautiful, deli- 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 15 1 

cate handwriting. I breathlessly opened it — I 
looked for the most blissful tidings man can 
expect. But all my hopes were immediately 
shattered. The letter contained only a request 
not to visit her to-day, as she expected a visit 
at the castle from the Court Residence. No 
friendly word — no news of her health — only 
at the close, a postscript: “The Hofrath will 
be here to-morrow and the next day.” 

Here were two days tom out at once from 
the book of life. If they could only be com- 
pletely obliterated — but no, they hang over me 
like the leaden roof of a prison. They must 
be lived. I could not give them away as a 
charity to king or beggar, who would gladly 
have sat two days longer upon his throne, or 
on his stone at the church door. I remained 
in this abstraction for a long time; but then I 
thought of my morning prayer, and how I said 
to myself there was no greater unbelief than 
despondency — how the smallest and greatest 
in life are part of one great divine plan, to 


152 


LAST MEMORY. 


which we must submit, however hard it may 
be. Like a rider who sees a precipice before 
him, I drew in the reins. “Be it so, since it 
must be!” I cried out; “but God's earth is not 
the place for complaints and lamentations. Is 
it not a happiness to hold in my hand these 
lines which she has written.^ and is not the 
hope of seeing her again in a short time a 
greater bliss than I have ever deserved.^ ‘Al- 
ways keep the head above water,' say all good 
life-swimmers. As well sink at once as allow 
the water to run into your eyes and throat.'* 
If it is hard for us, amid these little ills of life, 
to keep God's providence continually in view, 
and if we hesitate, perhaps rightly, in every 
struggle, to step out of the common-places of 
life into the presence of the divine, then life 
ought to appear, to us at least, an art, if not 
a duty. What is more disagreeable than the 
child who behaves ungovernably and grows 
dejected and angry at every little loss and 
pain.^ On the other hand, nothing is more 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE, 


153 


beautiful than the child in whose tearful eyes 
the sunshine of joy and innocence soon beams 
again, like the flower, which quivers and trem- 
bles in the spring shower, and soon after blos- 
soms and exhales its fragrance, as the sun dries 
the tears upon its cheeks. 

A good thought speedily occurred to me, that 
I could live both these days with her, notwith- 
standing fate. For a long time I had intended 
to write down the dear words she had said, and 
the many beautiful thoughts she had confided to 
me ; and so the days passed away in memory of 
the many charming hours spent together, and in 
the hope of a still more beautiful future, and I 
was by her and with her, and lived in her, and 
felt the nearness of her spirit and her love more 
than I had ever felt them when I held her hand 
in mine. 

How dear to me now are these leaves ! How 
often have I read and re-read them — not that 
I had forgotten one word she said, but they were 
the witnesses of my happiness, and something 


154 


LAST MEMORY, 


looked out of them upon me like the gaze of a 
friend, whose silence speaks more than words. 
The memory of a past happiness, the memory 
of a past sorrow, the silent meditation upon the 
past, when everything disappears that surrounds 
and restrains us, when the soul throws itself 
down, like a mother upon the green grave- 
mound of her child who has slept under it many 
long years, when no hope, no desire, disturbs 
the silence of peaceful resignation, we may well 
call sadness, but there is a rapture in this sad- 
ness which only those know who have loved and 
suffered much. Ask the mother what she feels 
when she ties upon the head of her daughter the 
veil she once wore as a bride, and thinks of the 
husband no longer with her ! Ask a man what 
he feels when the maiden whom he has loved, 
and the world has torn from him, sends him 
after death the dried rose which he gave her in 
youth! They may both weep, but their tears 
are not tears of sorrow, but tears of joy; tears 
of sacrifice, with which man consecrates himself 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 155 


to the Divine, and with faith in God’s love and 
wisdom, looks upon the dearest he has passing 
away from him. 

Still let us go back in memory, back in the 
living presence of the past. The two days flew 
so swiftly that I was agitated, as the happiness 
of seeing her again drew nearer and nearer. As 
the carriages and horsemen arrived on the first 
day from the city, I saw that the castle was alive 
with gaily-dressed visitors. Banners fluttered 
from the roof, music sounded through the 
castle-yard. In the evening, the lake swarmed 
with pleasure-boats. The moennerchors sounded 
over the waves, and I could not but listen, for 
I fancied she also listened to these songs from 
the window. Everything was stirring, also, on 
the second day, and early in the afternoon the 
guests prepared for departure. Late in the 
evening I saw the Hofrath’s carriage also going 
back alone to the city. I could not restrain 
myself any longer. I knew she was alone. I 
knew she thought of me, and longed for me. 


LAST MEMORY. 


156 


Should I allow one night to pass without at 
least pressing her hand, without saying to her 
that the separation was over, that the next 
morning would waken us to new rapture. I 
still saw a light in her window — why should 
she be alone Why should I not, for one 
moment at least, feel her sweet presence.? Al- 
ready I stood at the castle ; already I was about 
to pull the bell — then suddenly I stopped and 
said : “ No ! no weakness ! You should be 
ashamed to stand before her like a thief in 
the night. Early in the morning go to her like 
a hero, returning from battle, for whom she is 
now weaving the crown of love, which she will 
place upon thy head in the morning.” 

And the morning came — and I was with her, 
really with her. Oh, speak not of the spirit as if 
it could exist without the body. Complete exist- 
ence, consciousness, and enjoyment, can only be 
where body and soul are one — an embodied 
spirit, a spiritualized body. There is no spirit 
without body, else it would be a ghost: there is 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 157 


no body without spirit, else it would be a corpse. 
Is the flower in the field without spirit ? Does 
it not appear in a divine will, in a creative 
thought which preserves it, and gives it life and 
existence ? That is its soul — only it is silent in 
the flower, while it manifests itself in man by 
words. Real life is, after all, the bodily and 
spiritual life ; real consciousness is, after all, the 
bodily and spiritual consciousness; real being 
together is, after all, bodily and spiritually being 
together, and the whole world of memory in 
which I had lived so happily for two days, dis- 
appeared like a shadow, like a nonentity, as I 
stood before her, and was really with her. I 
could have laid my hands upon her brow, her 
eyes, and her cheeks, to know, to unmistakably 
know, if it were really she — not only the image 
which had hovered before my soul day and 
night, but a being who was not mine, and still 
could and would be mine; a being in whom I 
could believe as in myself ; a being far from me 
and yet nearer to me than my own self ; a being 


LAST MEMORY, 


158 


without whom my life was no life, death was no 
death ; without whom my poor existence would 
dissolve into infinity like a sigh. I felt, as my 
thoughts and glances rested upon her, that now, 
in this very instant, the happiness of my exist- 
ence was complete — and a shudder crept over 
me as I thought of death — but it seemed no 
longer to have any terror for me ; for death 
could not destroy this love ; it would only purify, 
ennoble, and immortalize it. 

It was so beautiful to be silent with her. 
The whole depth of her soul was reflected in 
her countenance, and as I looked upon her I 
saw and heard her every thought and emotion. 
“You make me sad,” she seemed on the point 
of saying, and yet would not. ‘‘Are we not 
together again at last.^ Be quiet! Complain 
not! Ask not! Speak not! Be welcome to 
me! Be not bad to me!” All this looked from 
her eyes, and still we did not venture to disturb 
the peace of our happiness with a word. 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 


^59 


“ Have you received a letter from the Ho- 
frath?” was the first question, and her voice 
trembled with each word. 

“ No,*' I replied. 

She was silent for a time, and then said: 
“ Perhaps it is better it has happened thus, and 
that I can tell you everything myself. My friend, 
we see each other to-day for the last time. Let 
us part in peace, without complaint and without 
anger. I feel that I have done you a great 
wrong. I have intruded upon your life without 
thinking that even a light breath often withers 
a flower. I know so little of the world that I 
did not believe a poor suffering being like my- 
self could inspire anything but pity. I welcomed 
you in a frank and friendly way because I had 
known you so long, because I felt so well in your 
presence — why should I not tell all.? — because 
I loved you. But the world does not understand 
or tolerate this love. The Hofrath has opened 
my eyes. The whole city is talking about us. 
My brother, the Regent, has written to the 


i6o 


LAST MEMORY. 


Prince, and he requests me never to see you 
again. I deeply regret that I have caused you 
this sorrow. Tell me you forgive me — and 
then let us separate as friends.” 

Her eyes had filled with tears, and she closed 
them that I should not see her weeping. 

“ Marie,” said I, for me there is but one life 
which is with you ; but for you there is one will 
which is your own. Yes, I confess, I love you 
with the whole fire of love, but I feel I am not 
worthily yours. You stand far above me in 
nobility, sublimity and purity, and I can scarcely 
understand the thought of ever calling you my 
wife. And, yet, there is no other road on which 
we could travel through life together. Marie, 
you are wholly free ; I ask for no sacrifice. The 
world is great, and if you wish it, we shall never 
see each other again. But if you love me, if you 
feel you are mine, oh, then, let us forget the 
world and its cold verdict. In my arms I will 
bear you to the altar, and on my knees I wiD 
swear to be yours in life and in death.” 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. i6i 

“My friend,” said she, ^‘we must never wish 
for the impossible. Had it been God’s will that 
such a tie should unite us in this life, would He, 
forsooth, have imposed these burdens upon me 
which make me incapable of being else than 
a helpless child Do not forget that what we 
call Fate, Circumstance, Relations, in life, is in 
reality only the work of Providence. To resist 
it is to resist God himself, and were it not so 
childish one might call it presumptuous. Men 
wander on earth like the stars in heaven. God 
has indicated the paths upon which they meet, 
and if they are to separate, they must. Resist- 
ance were useless, otherwise it would destroy the 
whole system of the world. We cannot under- 
stand it, but we can submit to it. I cannot my- 
self understand why my inclination towards you 
was wrong. No ! I cannot, will not call it wrong. 
But it cannot be, it is not to be. My friend, 
this is enough — we must submit in humility and 
faith.*' 


II 


i 62 


LAST MEMORY. 


Notwithstanding the calmness with which she 
spoke, I saw how deeply she suffered ; and yet I 
thought it wrong to surrender so quickly in this 
battle of life. I restrained myself as much as I 
could, so that no passionate word should increase 

f 

her trouble, and said: 

“If this is the last time we are to meet in 
this life, let us see clearly to whom we offer this 
sacrifice. If, our love violated any higher law 
whatsoever, I would, as you say, bow myself in 
humility. It were a forgetfulness of God to op- 
pose one’s self to a higher will. It may seem at 
times as if men could delude God, as if their 
small sense had gained some advantage over the 
Divine wisdom. This is frenzy — and the man 
who commences this Titanic battle, will be 
crushed and annihilated. But what opposes our 
love.^ Nothing but the talk of the world. I 
respect the customs of human society. I even 
respect them when, as in our time, they are over- 
refined and confused. A sick body needs arti- 
ficial medicines, and without the barriers, the 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 


163 


respect and the prejudices of society, at which 
we smile, it were impossible to hold mankind 
together as at present existing, and to accomplish 
the purpose of our temporal co-existence. We 
must sacrifice much to these divinities. Like the 
Athenians, we send every year a heavy boatload 
of youths and maidens as tribute to this monster 
which rules the labyrinth of our society. There 
is no longer a heart that has not broken ; there 
is no longer a man of true feelings who has not 
been obliged to break the wings of his love be- 
fore he came into the cage of society for rest. 
It must be so. It cannot be otherwise. You 
know not life, but thinking only of my friends, I 
can tell you many volumes of tragedy. 

“ One loved a maiden, and the love was re- 
turned ; but he was poor, she was rich. The 
fathers and relatives wrangled and sneered, and 
two hearts were broken. Why } Because the 
world looked upon it as a misfortune for a 
woman to wear a dress made of the wool of 


i64 


LAST MEMORY, 


a shrub in America, and not of the fibres of 
a worm in China. 

“Another loved a maiden, and was loved in 
return ; but he was a Protestant, she was a 
Catholic. The mothers and the priests bred 
mischief, and two hearts were broken. Why.^ 
On account of a political game of chess which 
Charles V and Henry VIII played together, 
three hundred years ago. 

“A third loved a maiden, and was loved in 
return ; but he was a noble, she a peasant. The 
sisters were angry, and quarreled, and two hearts 
were broken. Why } Because, a hundred years 
ago, one soldier slew another in battle, who 
threatened the life of his king. This gave him 
title and honors, and his great grandson ex- 
piated the blood shed at that time, with a 
disappointed life. 

“ The statisticians say a heart is broken every 
hour, and I believe it. But why.^^ In almost 
every case, because the world does not recog- 
nize love between ‘strange people,’ unless it be 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 


165 


between man and wife. If two maidens love 
the same man — the one must fall as a sacri- 
fice. If two men love the same maiden, one 
or both must fall as a sacrifice. Why.? Can- 
not one love a maiden, without wishing to 
marry her.? Cannot one look upon a woman, 
without desiring her for his own.? You close 
your eyes, and I feel I have said too much. 
The world has changed the most sacred things 
in life into the most common. But, Marie, 
enough ! Let us talk the language of the world 
when we must talk, and act in it, and with it. 
But let us preserve a sanctuary where two 
hearts can speak the pure language of the 
heart, undisturbed by the raging of the world 
without. The world itself honors this seclu- 
sion, this courageous resistance, which noble 
hearts, conscious of their own rectitude, oppose 
to the ordinary course of things. The atten- 
tions, the amenities, the prejudices of the world 
are like a climbing plant. It is pleasant to 
see an ivy, with its thousand tendrils and roots, 


i66 


LAST MEMORY, 


decorating the solid wall-work; but it should 
not be allowed too luxuriant growth, else it 
will penetrate every crevice of the structure, 
and destroy the cement which welds it together. 
Be mine, Marie; follow the voice of your heart. 
The word which now hangs upon your lips de- 
cides forever your life and mine — my happi- 
ness and yours.’' 

I was silent. The hand I held in mine re- 
turned the warm pressure of the heart. A 
storm raged in her breast, and the blue heaven 
before me never seemed so beautiful as now, 
while the storm swept by, cloud upon cloud. 

“ Why do you love me V said she, gently, as 
if she must still delay the moment of decision. 

“Why, Marie Ask the child why it is 
born; ask the flower why it blossoms; ask the 
sun why it shines. I love you because I must 
love you. But if I am compelled to answer 
further, let this book, lying by you, which you 
love so much, speak for me: 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE, 


167 


[„ 2 )a§ Be^te folte ba§ lieBSte §in, unb tn bi§er ItBe 
§oIte ntd^t ange§el§en raerben tiu^ imb unnu^, fromen 
ober §d^aben, geratn ober t)orIu§t, ere ober unere, loB 
ober unloB ober bi§er !etn§, §unber voa^ in ber 
tnarl^eit ba§ ebel^te unb ba§ atter Be^te ba§ §oIt 
oud^ ba§ aHerlieB^te §tn, unb umB nid^tg anber§ ban 
adein umB ba§, bag eg bag ebelgt unb bag Begte igt* 
.^te nad^ mod^t ein mengd^e gin leBen gerid^ten non 
ufgen unb non innen* Son ufgen : raan unber ben 
creaturen igt eing Begger ban bag anber, bar nad^ 
ban bag en)ig gut in einem mer ober ntinner gd^inet 
unb raurfet ban in bem anbern. raeld^em nun 
bag eraig gut aller meigt gd^inet, lud^tet, tourfet unb 
Befant unb gelieBet toirt, bag igt oud^ bag Begte unber 
ben creaturen ; unb in raeld^em big mingt igt, bag igt 
oud^ bag aHer mingt gut, ©0 nu ber mengd^e bie 
creatur l^anbelt unb ba mit umB get, unb bigen 
unbergc^eit Befennet, go got im ie bie Begte creatur 
bie lieBgte gin unb got gid^ mit flig ju ir l^alben unb 
gid^ ba mit ooreinigen ♦ . 

“ The best should be the most loved, and in 
this love there should be no consideration of 
advantage or disadvantage, gain or loss, honor 01 
dishonor, praise or blame, or anything else, but 
of that which in reality is the noblest and best. 


LAST MEMORY. 


1 68 


which should be the dearest of all; and for no 
other reason, but because it is the noblest and 
best. According to this a man should plan his 
inner and outer life. From without: if among 
mankind there is one better than another, in 
proportion as the eternally good shines or works 
more in one than in another. That being in 
whom the eternally good shines, works, is known 
and loved most, is therefore the best among 
mankind; and in whom this is most, there is 
also the most good. As now a man has inter- 
course with a being, and apprehends this distinc- 
tion, then the best being should be the dearest 
to him, and he should fervently cling to it. and 
unite himself with it ” 


“Because you are the most perfect creature 
that I know, Marie, therefore I am good to you, 
therefore you are dear to me, therefore we love 
each other. Speak the word which lives in you, 
say that you are mine. Deny not your inner- 
most convictions. God has imposed a life of 
suffering upon you. He sent me to bear it with 
you. Your sorrow shall be my sorrow, and we 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE, 1O9 


will bear it together, as the ship bears the heavy 
sails which guide it through the storms of life 
into the safe haven at last.” 

She grew more and more silent. A gentle 
flush played upon her cheeks like the quiet 
evening gleam. Then she opened her eyes full 
— the sun gleamed all at once with marvellous 
lustre. 

“I am yours,” said she. “ God wills it. Take 
me just as I am; so long as I live I am yours, 
and may God bring us together again in a more 
beautiful life, and recompense your love.” 

We lay heart to heart. My lips closed the 
lips upon which had just now hung the blessing 
of my life, with a gentle kiss. Time stood still 
for us. The world about us disappeared. Then 
a deep sigh escaped from her breast. ‘‘May 
God forgive me for this rapture,” she whispered. 
“Leave me alone now, I cannot endure more. 
Auf wiedersehen! my friend, my loved one, my 
savior.” 


LAST MEMORY. 


tyo 

These were the last words I ever heard from 
her. But no — I had reached home and was 
lying upon my bed in troubled dreams. It was 
past midnight when the Hofrath entered my 
room. “Our angel is in Heaven,” said he; 
“here is the last greeting she sends you.” With 
these words he gave me a letter. It enclosed 
the ring which she had given me, aAd I once had 
given her, with the words: '‘'‘As God wills'' It 
was wrapped in an old paper, whereon she had 
some time written the words I spoke to her 
when a child : “ What is thine, is mine. Thy 
Marie.” 

Hours long, we sat together without speaking. 
It was a spiritual swoon which Heaven sends us 
when the load of pain becomes greater than we 
can bear. At last the old man arose, took my 
hand and said : “We see each other to-day for 
the last time, for you must leave here, and my 
days are numbered. There is but one thing I 
must say to you — a secret which I have carried 
all my life, and confessed to no one. I have 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE, 


171 


always longed to confess it to some one. Listen 
to me. The spirit which has left us was a beau- 
tiful spirit, a majestic, pure soul, a deep, true 
heart. I knew one spirit as beautiful as hers — 
still more beautiful. It was her mother. I loved 
her mother, and she loved me. We were both 
poor, and I struggled with life to obtain an hon- 
orable position both on her account and my own. 
The young Prince saw my bride and loved her. 
He was my Prince ; he loved her ardently. He 
was ready to make any sacrifice and to elevate 
her, the poor orphan, to the rank of Princess. 
I loved her so that I sacrificed the happiness of 
my love for her. I forsook my native land and 
wrote her I would release her from her vow. I 
never saw her again, except on her death-bed. 
She died in giving birth to her first daughter. 
Now you know why I loved your Marie, and 
prolonged her life from day to day. She was 
the only being that linked my heart to this life. 
Bear life as I have borne it. Lose not a day in 
useless lamentation. Help mankind whenever 


172 


LAST MEMORY. 


you can. Love them and thank God that you 
have seen and known and loved on this earth 
such a human heart as hers — and that you have 
lost it.” 

As God wt7/” said I, and we parted for life. 


And days and weeks and months and years 
have flown. Home is a stranger, to me, and a 
foreign land is my home. But her love remains 
with me, and as a tear drops into the ocean, so 
has her love dropped into the living ocean of 
humanity and pervades and embraces millions — 
millions of the “ strange people ” whom I have 
so loved from childhood. 


Only on quiet summer days like this, when 
one in the green woods has nature alone at heart, 
and knows not whether there are human beings 
without, or he is living entirely alone in the 
world, then there is a stir in the graveyard of 
memory, the dead thoughts rise again, the full 
omnipotence of love returns to the heart and 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE, 


173 


streams out from that beautiful being who once 
looked upon me with her deep unfathomable 
eyes. Then it seems as if the love for the mil- 
lions were lost in the love for the one, my good 
angel, and my thoughts are dumb in the pres- 
ence of the incomprehensible enigma of endless 
and everlasting lovfe. 













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